


Say It

by angelfxll



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aaron Hotchner Needs a Hug, Angst, Beth makes an appearance, Bisexual Female Character, Canon based but not canon, David Rossi makes it all work, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, In which Spencer Reid is bi, More Hotch Content 2020 (Criminal Minds), Mutual Pining, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Soulmates, Slow Build, Slow Burn, all about lingering affection, also pls let people find this so i dont seem insane anymore, au where everyone apart from the main characters know they're yearning for one another, but its mostly on the evolution of their relationship, its all about the yearning, later mention of Emily's fake death, post JJ leaving for Pentagon, the only character i will write fanfics for, there will be some cases mentioned, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:33:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 140,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28026306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelfxll/pseuds/angelfxll
Summary: You steady yourself, shield your body language from the prying eyes of the profiler now standing in front of you. You knew quite a lot about Agent Hotchner. Everyone at the academy did. Apart from his many conferences, lead with Agent Rossi and Dr. Reid on the minds of criminals, he was also an alumnus from your university. And you had become familiar with the BAU's work three years ago, on a Dallas case. Apart from his professionalism you’d remembered one thing about him – even with his always frowning stern face, and serious façade, he was a very attractive man. He looked more mature, aged since the last time you’d seen him. His dark hair clipped short, short fringe covering only half of his forehead way above his left eyebrow, and tight dark suit. His composure perfect. His jawline sharp, and cheekbones high, two straight lines at the sides of his mouth of wrinkles about to grow with time and the years, from dimples appearing after laughing or smiling too often (that’s what you assume).NOT ABANDONED - just in a writer's block lmao sry yall 😭__This is a slow burn, and title from Maggie Rogers' song :)(Sorry I don't know how to write something that is not about yearning or pining)
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Reader, Aaron Hotchner & You, Aaron Hotchner/Original Female Character(s), Aaron Hotchner/Reader, Aaron Hotchner/You
Comments: 26
Kudos: 117





	1. The day we met

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all. to preface: this is literally my first fanfiction ever. I've written original stories before but never fanfics so i'm curious to see where this goes. I have a lot of ideas :))) hope this gets a bit of traction.
> 
> Also I'm keeping the name of the Y/N to Agent Kuroki but if you guys want me to switch to sth else I will :)  
> just quickly: the name is taken from a character from Deadly Class because I was watching that and Criminal Minds at the same time but I just loved her name and personality so much that I just stole it lol but its in no way a crossover. (just me bein a fangirl)
> 
> The timeline is as follows: post JJ leaving for Pentagon, Seaver never joins, and then JJ rejoins a bit later than the show
> 
> (((also english is not my first language but I'm actively not about to let grammar errors show in this so i appreciate every comment/critic! thnx))))

**-3 years ago.**

“What do you mean?” you repeat again. 

Revi shoots you an exasperated look as he tears his eyes off his laptop screen. 

“Aria is calling on more agents to help. This is becoming a national news sensation” 

“So, SWAT?” you ask and move to the boards as you pin another face to the victim's column – a middle aged white woman with blonde hair and glasses – shot in the neck with a sniper in the central mall piazza shooting spree occurred just 2 hours ago at 11am in Dallas. 

Revi shrugs, “I think not” 

Just as he’s about to turn to face you, Aria walks in, “The Behavioral Science Unit will join us in 30 minutes.” She announces, as 2 other agents and 2 police officers follow on her footsteps. 

“Nadine, please prepare them the conference room. They can use ours. Clear out anything that’s useless and bring out another one of those boards to them” 

“Yes, ma’am” one of the officers says and he turns to the conference room your team used not 10 minutes ago. 

“What else?” 

“They said they want a list of any civil unrest in Dallas for the past 5 years.” 

You turn at that, having thought of it too at that exact meeting before Aria had discarded it. This was a shooting spree after all – no motive, no hesitation – meaning no relation to the current situation of Dallas in itself. 

The remaining police officer nods, and leaves too. The other 2 agents, Marquez and Verona wait for their own direction. 

“You can go back to the first site. See if there’s anything the local police missed” 

They take their cue, and once everyone is dispatched, Aria plops down on the first free chair she reaches. 

“The BAU?” Revi asks, and he doesn’t even bother paying attention to his laptop as he does. 

Aria lets out a sigh, “Director’s orders. They’ve been quite successful lately at offering fresh new perspectives.” 

“Right”, Revi exhales, “So we work alongside them?” 

“No. We follow their orders” she simply says and stands up, going back to whoever or whatever requests her attention first. 

So, _today we place nice_ , you think to yourself. 

**Hotch's POV**

Aaron Hotchner is a secure, self- confident man, and there is nothing else he feels more confident about in his life, at the moment, than his line of work. The only thing left was his career and that, he couldn’t fuck up. Not even if he tried to. Not even after Haley had handed him the divorce papers ceremoniously at his office one day. Not even after knowing she’d taken their son Jack back home with her, leaving him to succumb into a dreary state of haziness and sadness. Rossi had been the first to notice his swift change of pace, the way he’d cling to the clutter of paperwork and field assignments. And the way his good mood and smiles had become a memory of the past. Not even when Garcia said something utterly ridiculous, did he gift his team with a laugh. 

A shooting spree brings them to Dallas at noon on a Saturday, and as he’s already hushed out plans in the plane here – Reid and Morgan to the crime scene, Prentiss and Rossi to the M.E to look over the victims – he walks into the Dallas police office alongside JJ, who’s in charge of revisiting the news circulating over the event. 

“Hello, detective Smith. I’m media liaison, agent Jennifer Jareau”, JJ says as she stops and extends her hand out to the police chief, a man in his forties, white hair and white moustache covering his entire mouth. 

“Yes, we spoke on the phone” the man says shaking her hand. 

JJ then takes a step back and it’s Hotch’s turn to exchange pleasantries. 

“This is our unit chief, SSA Aaron Hotchner” the police chief’s handshake is weak and hesitant, as if barely waiting to get out of it. 

“Thank you for coming, sir” he says either way and Hotch nods at that. “Thought your team was larger.” 

“The rest is out canvassing the area.” Hotch retorts and he takes a quick scan of the precinct. JJ had called the responsible Dallas federal agents in the area to get the details before collaborating officially on this case, yet he still can’t catch sight of unit chief Agent Aria. The precinct was a ruckus – police officers shoveling past one another, phones ringing in the background, and several suits, none of each looked familiar to him. Agent Aria’s unit was here, he could tell, but where he exactly he doesn’t know. 

“We’ve prepared an office for you, sir.” 

“Thank you” JJ responds when he doesn’t and he turns to look at her, and she reads the silent question in his eyes. 

“Where’s Agent Aria?” 

“Ah,” the police chief exhales, his facial expressions changing immediately. 

_Displeasure with female authoritative figures?_ Hotch wondered but he shoved that thought to the unimportant pile for now. 

“Right this way”, he guides them through the depths of the precinct, pausing before a wide circular open room, airy and light brown in color, desks stacked around the room like a conference hall. Only a man in his late twenties sits with two large computers in front of him. 

JJ looks at Hotch, her surprise evident in her face. 

“Agent Hotchner-” a raucous voice rings out from behind them and they all turn, causing even the young man to notice them for the first time. 

Agent Aria, a tall, statuesque broad woman stands before them, short-trimmed blonde hair that looks almost white reach her ears and she’s dressed in a form fitting black suit, all signs that lead to the fact that she cares about her image as a dominant female. A woman, smaller in statute but still tall, the complete opposite of Aria – Hotch thinks – stands at her right a few feet away behind. 

Hotch shakes Aria’s hand in greeting and she allows herself a small smile. 

“Glad your team could join us”, there’s a small bite in her voice, as her eyes trail over to JJ. 

“The rest are out already” Hotch repeats once again. 

“Ah” Aria lets out, nodding and crosses her arms in front of her. The police chief takes his cue to leave. 

“This is Agent Jareau, our media liaison. If you don’t mind, I want her to control further spread of the shooting spree.” 

Aria’s displeasure is not hidden in the features – and he knows she does it especially because he can read her body language so well – but she nods nonetheless. 

“You think there’s something else at play here?” 

“That’s what we’re here for.” Hotch says, his voice stern. 

“Very well, then” 

She bops her head to where the young man is sitting, “Agent Revi here,” she starts and the young man approaches them, greeting them too. “is looking over the entire camera footage that we have from the shopping mall. He will be able to extract any image we have on this guy in a few.” 

“Our technical analyst can look over those too. “Hotch adds before she’s finished talking. “She’s faster.” 

The young man hesitates before going back to his desk, and he exchanges a knowing look with the woman standing by Aria. 

Aria doesn’t comment on that, just grants him a small hum of approval. He knows that whatever he and his team will do today will be brutally examined by Aria, which is another factor for his stress for today. 

“Some of my team is out in the field too, if there’s any way they can assist you, they will be happy too.” she says, and as if they’d rehearsed it before, the woman who’d been waiting behind steps to the forefront. 

“Agent Kuroki”, _you_ say and it takes everything for Hotch to not dismiss you like he did with Agent Revi, and how he’s about to with Agent Aria too with her over breaching invasiveness. Not when you seem to be as young as you look, with the quick glance that he grants you. 

“Ah yes”, JJ says, “we spoke on the phone.” 

The woman gives a sharp nod. Your voice though does not match the quiet unrelenting nature of your posture and expressions – the contrast catching even Hotch by surprise. 

“I will show you to the offices and if there’s any problems with access please let me know” your voice is light and soft, and Hotch gives up his stubborn resolve and looks you over with that same attention and intensity he gives to unsubs. 

“We can start by going through the media footage if you have any of that here” JJ responds, her smile polite and friendly. 

The young agent can’t be older than Reid, Hotch notes, despite your attempt to look older than you are – short and straight dark hair coming to your jawline, wearing a white button up shirt and black suit pants with golden suspenders hooked around your body, gun holsters at your sides, framing your figure. Your face, round and symmetrical is set as a stone – and Hotch tries to imagine you not as cold as you appear now, not furrowing your black eyebrows, the curve of your full lips set upwards instead of a firm straight line, almond eyes steady, your youth no longer hidden by your perfect composure – and you're still attractive. He was never one to be impressed by beauty, he’d been quite proud of that since he’d met Haley but it would be a foolish lie to tell himself that it wasn’t the first thing that had drawn him to her all those years ago. If from before, he’d assumed the young agent was submissive, something told him it was just a show for Agent Aria’s sake. 

“Very well then” he watches JJ follow the agent outside and as the shadow of Agent Aria leaves you, he notices the lightness of your steps too. 

He returns his attentions to the woman in front of him. 

“What can you tell me about the recent shooting sprees you’ve witnessed?” he asks. 

\--- 

The unsub had turned to be a LDSK – long distance serial killer, who targeted specific people. Thanks to the genius of Garcia, the team had been able to track the last phone number of one of the last victims – a middle-aged man in a parking lot. Reid and Morgan had deduced that the change of location to something not as visited was a clear tell to the M.O of the unsub. The team was on route, split up in two for the two locations Garcia had tracked down. Two trucks of federal agents were following behind their SUVs and Hotch made a sharp turn to the left again – his car coming to a halt in front of the 12- stories building in rough concrete – a real estate project still in construction. 

“Morgan, Reid” he gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him, “she’s on the 7th floor, the only point of view is the news building on avenue Six.” 

“Copy that” Morgan’s voice responded from his comm. 

“What’s our way in?” Aria asked behind him, her car had stopped not a second after his, and with Rossi and Prentiss at his sides he turned to see the flurry of officers she’d brought along. 1 of her agents had turned to follow the flow of people in the streets, careful not to ruse suspicion from the unsub that he knew was watching from the building across from them. Agent Revi was the only face he recognized from Aria’s team, others must be agents he hadn’t had the time to meet and greet. 

“He’s delusional. There’s nothing that can snap him out of it. The only way is to set up a trap” Rossi responded for him, and he knew that the older man had already figured out his plan of action. 

“Prentiss” he said loudly, and she followed him without hesitation. They started running, hurrying up the steps of the building that would take them to where the potential victim – Ashley Simmons – had barricaded herself with her life on the line. 

\-- 

A shot rang around the building, and Hotch stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t even gotten the loop fixed for the sniper and his blood ran cold now. 

He couldn’t look up to see another body – not when it had been his idea to make her open up the window panes and have her look out, making the unsub self-assured in his final mission – so he turned to Prentiss. 

Hidden behind the refrigerator of the apartment they’d stepped in, where Ashley had been isolated for the entire day, Prentiss was already looking over his shoulder trying to get a sense of what had happened. Her jaw hanged open, face in shock but not in horror – and that was all he needed to know that the woman they’d come to protect was fine. 

He left the sniper on the ground and turned to the blonde woman, still shaking from the adrenaline and everything else, and the windows were still shaded. He stood up, and Prentiss followed, reaching out for the woman. 

“Morgan?” Hotch asked tentatively through the comms. 

“He’s dead” came the other man’s voice, rushed and breathless. 

A wave of sudden relief filled his lungs as he gained confidence in his steps and opened up the windows. He could make out the silhouettes of Reid and Morgan on the other building – not a third figure as Morgan foretold. 

“Good job, Morgan” he said. 

“Actually, it wasn’t me.” 

To that, he looked around to Reid’s slumped figure and his face looked as stunned as Hotch’s was in the beginning. 

“Aria’s agent”, Morgan’s voice ushered through the comms, as Hotch leaned over to the porch, straining to figure out where it came from, “Hotel Dumont at your 3 o’clock” Morgan said. 

And he saw her then, the small figure on top of the roof of the Hotel he’d deduced would take too long a time to gain access to – without a clear telling if the shot would be clear. You rose from your sitting position, on your knees and with the sniper on hand, your googles still on. It wasn’t a sniper from SWAT or CSI, but the very agent that he’d met just this noon, unassuming and silent the entire time you’d been in his presence. He didn’t think a single agent from Aria’s unit would be paying attention to the BAU team – not after knowing exactly the rivalry that existed between the two units. But you clearly had been. 

It was impressive, he’d thought, how a single agent, who he was certain hadn’t even been with Aria for that long, had made him change his mind over her entire unit completely. But you’d done so. 

\-- 

**Few Weeks Ago**

“Aaron”, Strauss called over and he let himself inside her office. 

“I had some ideas over the new agent to replace Agent Jareau” 

Hotch didn’t want to hear it, not when it hadn’t even been a week since she’d convinced her – with his efforts – to transfer to Pentagon promptly. He sat in the chair before her desk either way. The best he could do, is try to control who got in. 

\--- 

**Today:**

“Ah, Agent Hotchner, just in time” Strauss is alerted as soon as he made a push for the door of her office, deciding to walk in before asking her secretary if she had previous appointments. 

Strauss had left a weird message in his answering machine – something about making a decision over an agent already, when he hadn’t given his approval towards any of the files, she’d handed him over a week ago. He wanted to put a stop to it before she’d signed a stranger into the force, without his knowledge. 

He haltsthen, seeing Strauss standing in the middle of her office, very clearly not alone. 

“Agent Hotchner, this is Agent Kuroki, from the Dallas field office”. Strauss says, and she takes a step back revealing the big secret – the young woman standing behind her. 

But he remembers, he realizes, not only because Dallas field office had been so often a close partnership throughout his entire career, but also because the woman in a gray suit before him almost as cold as he’d first seen her years ago, had made quite a memorable impression. Your dark hair, now fuzzy and in loose curls at the ends had grown past your jaw, reaching to your collarbones that were exposed through the tight orange V-neck you were wearing under the suit jacket. He didn’t know if it was because of the hair, or the bright pop of color, but you looked softer – _sweet_ _er_ _._ It was such a striking contrast to the memory of you he’d stored in his mind, the one where you never granted half a smile or even better – the one shooting an unsub from 200metres of distance. 

“Good to see you again, sir” you say and your handshake is firm as he comes to stand before you, the top of your head reaching the height of his neck. He senses honesty in your gentle tone and your voice is something else he hadn’t forgotten. 

“Likewise,” he replies, willing his voice to sound as genuine as yours. 

“Agent Kuroki has been working for Agent Aria’s unit for 5 years” Strauss says and he turns to face you, “She’s left a memorable impression amongst the FBI directives” 

He knows where her flattering words are taking her before she says them aloud but before he can even show his surprise, Strauss adds that the young agent will be granted a traineeship instead of a position at the BAU. It wasn’t unheard of to have an agent train, during their educational years, or in the field, but it was not common to have a well-established one (5 years weren’t enough experience, he’d agree, but it could get you off the ‘beginner’s’ title) go back into learning. 

Having you stand here, while Strauss was giving him the news, was a tactic on its own – Strauss believed he wouldn’t put up a fight with you here, not without risking to offend both of them. 

As headstrong Strauss was, she’d proven to be more childish in some of her mannerisms more than anything else. 

So, he took it with a grain of salt. A traineeship meant also a temporary contract – and more flexibility in transferals and removals. He was being methodical – thinking of his own team, so flair and vulnerable and not yet accustomed to JJ’s departure – and so he accepted, telling the woman in front of him, that he’d introduce you the next Monday. 

And there was a tinge of curiosity there too, mixed around with another unknown feeling, he wouldn’t admit, on knowing how you’d fare in a new environment, in the fast pace of chasing unsubs and studying their behaviors first and foremost. 

\--- 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You transfer all of the sudden to the BAU.   
> Your first day and first case, not knowing your every move is being watched.

**Last Thursday:**

“Come in” the female voice behind the door calls out for you, and you take a breath to steady yourself before you enter. 

Erin Strauss, the section director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation stands up behind the desk of the office you walk into. She’s mid 50s, you assume, short blonde hair tucked behind her ears, and wearing an aquamarine blouse underneath the jacket of her suit. You knew her from the visits active agents did occasionally at the academy. 

“Agent Saya Kuroki” she says and you extend an arm for her to shake, as she approaches you. 

Her office is gray, marine blue curtains adorning the windows, black leather couches and chairs set up to welcome visitors. Her accolades are spread out all around the walls of the office – certifications, graduation from the academy, and a few ivy leagues diplomas on criminology, and so are the pictures of her family, spread out at her desk and at the library behind her chair. The picture of her son positioned 1cm forward than the pictures of her two daughters. You can’t help but notice the latter. 

“Ma’am” you say, and she smiles politely, not quite reaching her eyes. 

“I’ve had flying recommendations about you since you first began your education at the academy. Some had become intrigued even since your years at Harvard.” 

You nod, waiting. Strauss wasn’t one to call you to her office just to compliment you. Without anything hiding just below the surface. 

“Your experience at the Dallas office has caught my eyes since Unit Chief Aria took you into her team”. 

You steel your face. Unit Chief Aria wasn’t one for compliments either. She was rigid, by the rules and when something didn’t pan out into the field, and only as a last resort, would she ever let you offer your own deductions. She wasn’t mean per se. Many agents did the same. You were just fresh out of the academy back then; nobody trusted a fresher to make quick smart decisions. Not that you ever lacked them. But now it had been 5 years and you’d fallen into pace with the team, and Agent Aria trusted you as much as the other much more experienced agents in the field. 

“Which is why I think you’d be wasted there”. 

Your eyebrows fly up. “Pardon me, ma’am?” 

“One of my teams here at Quantico had to give away one of their agents – she was reassigned to work at the Pentagon”, she looks quite proud at that, and you can’t help but feel that she definitely had something to do with her transferal. “And I believe you’d be a good fit and continue your traineeship here instead of going back to Dallas.” 

You feel anger bubbling up. Traineeship? You’d stopped training 2 years into working for Agent Aria and now you were an agent. Like the rest of them. Is she demoting you? 

“With all due respect ma'am, I am a good fit with the unit of Agent Aria. I've had 5 years of experience in the field. I appreciate your offer for a traineeship but I would like to keep building up my career in Dallas.” 

She looks quite offended, like you should have been instead. 

“This isn’t just a crime unit”, she says and all her niceness vanishes from her face, “I am giving you a position at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, under the supervision of Unit Chief SSA Aaron Hotchner.” 

Right, you think, while your shoulders fall. She’s “giving” the position. So, it’s all done and sealed. 

“When do I have to start?” you ask, resigned now to your fate. What Strauss says, goes. 

“Monday” she says, and you huff out. She’s not even leaving you time for a proper send off by your team in Dallas. Today is only Thursday. You’d need at least 3 days to move out and resettle. But that’s what she wants of course. Strauss, giving orders not even leaving you enough time to regulate yourself at a new environment. 

“Has the team been informed, ma'am?” you now ask. You hope at least, that the BAU knew about your arrival. 

A knock on the door of Strauss’s office makes you turn. 

“Ah, Agent Hotchner, just in time”, she says leaving your side, and turns to the door as a tall man walks in. 

You steady yourself, shield your body language from the prying eyes of the profiler now standing in front of you. You knew quite a lot about Agent Hotchner. Everyone at the academy did. Apart from his many conferences, lead with Agent Rossi and Dr. Reid on the minds of criminals, he was also an alumnus from your university. And you had become familiar with the BAU's work three years ago, on a Dallas case. Apart from his professionalism you’d remembered one thing about him – even with his always frowning stern face, and serious façade, he was a very attractive man. He looked more mature, aged since the last time you’d seen him. His dark hair clipped short, short fringe covering only half of his forehead way above his left eyebrow, and tight dark suit. His composure perfect. His jawline sharp, and cheekbones high, two straight lines at the sides of his mouth of wrinkles about to grow with time and the years, from dimples appearing after laughing or smiling too often (that’s what you assume). 

“Agent Hotchner, this is Agent Kuroki, from the Dallas field office”. He extends a hand and you shake it – firm and steady. 

“Good to see you again, sir” you say genuinely, despite the context of your official meeting. 

“Likewise,” he says and holds your gaze, his dark eyes unreadable. So, he does remember your work in Dallas. 

He shifts his attention to Strauss, who stands there feeling high and mighty. You deduce that Agent Hotchner didn’t know about this either, as she starts filling him up on the details of your transfer. 

Fuck’s sake. At least she could have told your future boss. 

**Today:**

Hotch does as he told Strauss on Monday morning, almost like he remembered what he said word for word. He’d sent you an official email clarifying the date and exact hour you need to be present at the office. Your badge, gun and everything else had yet to be made available, not when Strauss had made your transferal so quick and sudden. 

That’s why, at 10am Monday morning, you wait in front of the security clearance, two officers not letting you pass through the building. 

“I told you”, you repeat once again, “call Erin Strauss if you have to. I have a meeting at the BAU offices” 

“Sorry ma’am” the short woman guarding the entrance says. 

“Call SSA Hotchner, then!” you spout, your patience already thinning. It doesn’t help that there is a crowd of people today, and not as many officers to deal with them at the same time. You glance at your watch, it’s almost 10 and officially late on your first day. 

“Fuck me, then” you let out, to nobody in particular and get your phone out, ready to call Strauss yourself. You retreat from the crowd, taking a step back. 

“Sorry, did you say Hotchner?” 

You turn to the woman beside you – a petite, red-headed woman, in two perfectly styled ponytails and large cheetah-printed glasses on her face. 

“Uh, yes?” you are taken aback by her, well – _everything._ Everyone else that comes in the building is either wearing suits or dressed formally, and she sticks out like a sore thumb. Like, _a perfectly manicured, polished and wrapped in décor_ \- thumb. 

“As in Aaron Hotchner?” she asks again and she looks you up and down, like you’re the striking one in this exchange. 

“Yes” you repeat more confidently. “You know him?” 

Her face is still in a frown, “As a matter of fact, I do. Do you?” 

That questions takes you even more by surprise than her first appearance. 

“Yes” you say again, “he’s supposed to be my boss from today.” 

Her face falls, “what?” 

“Yes,” you say once again, not quite catching why this is taking too long, “I have a meeting with him right now, actually, but the security won’t clear me, because my badge isn’t ready yet.” 

You let out a sigh at that and she glances at the situation before you. 

“Oh”, realization hits her. “Are you a serial killer in disguise?” she asks very fast. 

“Uh, no?” you offer, hesitating a bit. “Who would answer that with a yes if they were?” 

“Sociopaths, duh” she replies flatly, before saying, “follow me” 

And you do, because you are late and another alternative does not present itself in red heels and a bright dress as this one. 

She greets the officers with kindness and you don’t know how she manages to convince them to let you pass through, but her eyes watch you over the glasses, as if to make sure again that you’re not a criminal. 

When you step into the elevator, three other people climb in with you, and you feel her eyes on you the entire time. Her finger punches the 7th floor and you wait behind, beside her, while the others get out. 

“So,” she starts, “I’m actually still worried you are a criminal, and Derek would never let me live that down, so I will take you to Hotch as well.” 

_Hotch_ _? Isn’t it_ _Hotchner_ _?_

You nod at that, not knowing how to respond. She turns to you, not hiding her staring anymore. 

“Are you a genius, too?” she asks and your mouth hangs open – 3 strikes of surprises in one day. 

Yet you can’t answer because the elevator opens up to the seventh floor. She gets out and you follow, taking in the view as you go.   
A long, well-lit corridor spans wide, on one side a wall that at some point turns into the bureau’s memorabilia and then a wall of pictures of people to remember who passed away – the other side is glass walls, that look into a large office. 

The woman guides you towards that -the first entrance to the right. The bullpen is full of agents and people working at their desk or chatting amongst one another. 

“Garcia, did you get my memo?” A young agent calls towards the woman in front of you, as she raises a hand. 

“Not now, pretty boy” 

You try not to be surprised by her, again, but it’s impossible at this point. So, you just pay attention to the steps before you. 

She guides you up a set of stairs towards an office and sure enough, you see Unit Chief Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner written on the door. 

She knocks lightly before a voice tells her to come in. You wait outside, out of politeness. You didn’t really expect her to actually lead you inside herself. 

“Yes, Garcia?” 

“Uh, sir” you hear her call, “there’s a girl here who says you’re her future boss starting from today?” her voice drops lower but you still manage to hear her say. “I don’t know if I did well to bring her here, if she turns out to be a criminal” 

“Yes, Garcia” the man says, and then “please, tell her to come in” 

“You sure, sir?” 

There’s another whisper exchanged that you don’t catch this time. She gets out then, meets your eyes and speaks. 

“Guess, you aren’t a criminal” 

“Guess not” you answer, and you lightly knock on the already open door, and step inside. 

“Agent Kuroki” Hotch says and he stands up from his desk, crossing the distance between you to shake your hand. “How do you do?” 

“Very well, sir”, you say, “sorry about that, I was told that I didn’t have clearance yet below and had to wait for them to make a few calls but it was busy.” 

“No matter” he says, “I will let Garcia know to contact them so they speed up the process on your badge and gun” 

“Thank you, sir” 

“I wanted to go over some details over conduction in the field before the team got here but we can do it later. I want to introduce you to the rest. They’re outside.” 

“Sure” 

He leads the way out, descending the stairs you climbed to his office, and stopping below, before a group of 5 other people, the woman from before included. 

“Everyone,” he starts and they all straighten up, turning their attention immediately to his commanding voice. “This is Agent Saya Kuroki, she will be joining us as a trainee from today” 

“Hello” you say and pause to take a look at each of them. 

“Ah, a trainee! How exciting!” says the oldest man out of them all, black moustache on his face and black hair, wearing a gray suit – and of course you know him from the academy, the work, and his notoriety too. 

“This is Agent David Rossi” Hotch says but you already know. 

“It’s a pleasure, sir” you say and Rossi smiles cheekily, “I’ve bought all of your books” 

He laughs at that, “I hope that means you read them too?” 

“Yes” you say, and push your hands in your pockets, “turns out what’s written in them is more interesting and more fascinating beyond being great decor for my bookshelves.” 

Rossi seems to appreciate that comment, “I’m glad to hear. As a trainee though, you still look familiar” 

“Yes, I worked for the Dallas field office for 5 years, and we had your team’s help on a case years ago” you say triggering his memory. “It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, sir” 

He shakes your hand with a charming smile. 

“Ah yes,” the young agent beside him says, tall and long limbs, his face now familiar to you, his name just at your back of throat, but not yet reachable. His eyes peruse your face, “you were the shooter that took out the unsub from the LDSK case in ‘05 from Agent Aria’s unit.” 

Hotch crosses his arms at that, taking a step back from the meeting, as if everything had settled in its rightful place. 

“I never forget a face” he says with a wide smile and then it hits you. 

“Doctor Reid!” you let out, and you don’t hide the excitement in your mannerisms, and you remember loosely that he doesn’t shake hands either, not if the conference you followed back in college that he lead on Criminal Psychology was anything to remember. 

He’s still smiling at the recognition, and the woman who walked you in first – Garcia, lets out an exasperated sigh. 

“Please don’t tell me you have an eidetic memory too” 

“Ah, no” you say, chuckling, “I just remember the conference you lead -” you turn to Reid, “at my university on criminal psychology. Our professor was so proud that he got you to guest lecture that day.” 

“Uh, which university?” he asks and you laugh again. Of course, with that mind of his, he is requested everywhere. 

“I’m a Harvard grad” 

“Oh!” Reid lets out, “I remember that conference-” 

“Of course,” Garcia adds but he pays no attention to it as he goes on. 

“The audience was amazing. I don’t think I ever had that many questions in a lecture before” 

He leans back in his chair, amused by the memory you’d brought back to him, but the others still look confused by the entire interaction. 

“I’m Emily Prentiss” says the other woman from the group, black hair and pale skin and a straight posture. Her handshake is as firm as Rossi’s. 

“Not a genius”, she adds, quickly with a smile. 

“She does speak a whole load of languages though” Reid says and she shrugs. 

“Maybe I do” 

“Pleasure to meet you” you say, mirroring her smile. 

“Derek Morgan” the other male agent says, a tall, broad-shouldered and musculus man with a small smile at his lips. 

“That shot you took in Dallas was very impressive” his voice is tinged with respect and you feel grateful over that case for being an amazing opener. 

“I was just doing my job” you say truthfully, not as an attempt to make yourself seem humble. 

That gets another friendly smile out of him, and he leans back too. 

“Penelope Garcia is our technical analysist – the best one in the world” he says and his arm drops around the shoulders of the red-headed woman. She greets you officially too with a small handshake. 

“I had to hear about your shot for at least a month from Derek” she says not unkindly. 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you shrug again. At least, they were proud of that – Aria not so much, as you’d disobeyed her official order of following Agent Hotchner everywhere, only to update her on everything he did. 

“Right” Agent Hotchner says now, “The desk beside Reid’s is free for you to take if you prefer. Come see me in 1 hour for the documentation and what we first talked about.” 

“Yes. Thanks, sir” 

He nods, and with that goes back into his office. You have half a mind to follow him back, but you decide against it. Beginnings are always hard, but knowing already the team makes it seem less scary. 

You stand there as Garcia starts telling the story of stumbling into you this morning to the rest of them – as you hadn’t been there to witness it too. 

\---- 

**Hotch's Pov:**

“What is Strauss thinking?” David Rossi asks, peering out the blinds of Hotch’s office – the other man seated at his desk, going over documents that always seemed to pile up even as he finishes more. 

“A trainee?” he knows the older man is voicing his opinions aloud, not really expecting a valid answer, but he can’t help it either that those are his exact same thoughts. 

“You’d have to ask her, I’m afraid’’, he says and that seems to make Dave remember he’s not entirely alone. 

“You read her file”, Dave says. It’s not a question but a mere statement, riddled with some curiosity. 

Hotch motions to the file still on the round table, before Dave, giving him the option to read through it if he chooses to take it. 

“I did” 

Rossi pauses in front of the table, staring at the document, his hands in his pockets. 

“And what's written in it?” 

Hotch looks up then, feeling his hesitation. Hotch leans back, dropping the pen in his right hand on the table, and meets his eyes. 

“She has experience – in the field and outside. Her records are impressive. She comes highly recommended from the academy tutors and trainers.” 

Rossi reads through his listing of facts, and turns to face him. 

“Aria doesn’t recommend her?” 

“She does.” Hotch says flatly, “But she shows some reservation towards her” 

Rossi’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised. 

“On what?” he asks. 

Hotch runs in his mind the words Aria had used in the recommendation letter – he wasn’t Reid, remembering things phrase by phrase but his memory was strong either way – and it was formal writing. There wasn’t any direct wording in the letter that called Kuroki insubordinate, or impulsive or unintelligent, or nothing of the sorts. But he could read through the writing, to her lack of compliments that lavished the young agent, the same repetitions found among other letters – and found something strange there. He knew Agent Angela Aria from the beginnings of his own career, both of them the same age, and he knew her to be a tough, reserved, strict, ambitious and strong headed woman. She had never been one to flatter people – that was a classic tell of hers that seemed to remain throughout the years. Yet it is still strange to him, that she’d had such an exemplary agent and not have relayed anything else beyond the common writing he knew she’d copied from other recommendations. 

“Aha, “Rossi says before Hotch can even reply to his question, having already picked up the agent’s file, and having skimmed through it already. “SSA Aria is one tough cookie” He says as if to explain everything. 

“But a trainee? She was demoted, and I don’t understand why.” Rossi says and Hotch nods. 

“Your guess is as good as mine”, the latter says. 

“What’s your first assessment of her?” Dave asks, now looking at his friend. 

He takes a deep breath, not knowing how to exactly formulate it – a first for him. 

“She was quite reserved in Dallas” he says and Dave’s eyebrows go up, a surprise that signals it is indeed strange he would remember one single agent amongst all of the others in Aria ‘s unit. If Dave wants to add something else, a remark or maybe a question, he doesn’t do it. 

“And Strauss sprang this on her too - it was apparent” Hotch now looks at his own hands, still remembering the way he’d lingered for an invisible second with his hand wrapped around hers last Thursday. It felt odd. That even though Strauss had clearly made this decision about his team without him, he was at a strange peace with it. He’d made his resolve. He’d seen her in the field and in the office – talking to JJ, and with the police officers. She didn’t lack professionalism and that’s all that mattered. 

“But she seems professional” he repeats those same thoughts to Dave. 

“I’ll keep an eye on her” Dave says and it’s like a silent agreement between the two of them, as he places back the file on his desk. 

“That shot in Dallas was indeed impressive, though” he says. Despite the sudden curiosity that surrounds the young agent now, there is some show of respect in there. 

“And she doesn’t seem anything like SSA Aria, which is a good sign already.” 

“I know” Hotch says, agreeing with him. 

“Let’s see how she does in the field with the others” 

And it’s unsurprising really, how after all these years they seem to be on the same mindset on most things, but it is a comfort to Hotch too, to have his friend support his same worries. 

\---

**Later that week:**

“We have a case” Garcia says. 

Her heels announce her arrival before she walks through the bullpen. This early in the morning though, it is the shuffling of files. You all track behind her and into the conference room. There’s space left open for you between Reid and Morgan and you take it. 

“What do we have?” Morgan speaks first. 

Hotch, the only one apart from Garcia standing up, moves to the front of the screen. 

“A family annihilator” he says, and few images flood the screen. 

“Parents murdered in the second floor and children on the first” 

The images relay the same thing he says – on the visual and physical separation of the victims. And then on how the family unit had been the same both times – newly married mother with kids, and new husband being disposed of in the bathroom. 

You tear your eyes off the screen and look back at Garcia. Her discomfort was apparent, as her head stays lowered when it isn’t focused on anyone. 

“The first instance was in the first week of January and then now.” She speaks 

Rossi leans forward, hands over the files on the table. “This looks already fast” 

“Not to speak of the connotations of murders right after New Year’s Eve. That can’t be a coincidence.” Prentiss chimed. 

“We discuss this on the plane.” Hotch quips, “Wheels up in 30” 

You nod along as everyone starts picking up the files in haste. Your eyes stay fixated on the screen, the angles for which he’d positioned the body almost the same, as if mirroring one another even through rooms apart. 

“What’s the layout of the houses?” You voice your thoughts aloud. 

Garcia, the only one who hadn’t been in a hurry, meets your eyes and then looks back at the tablet on her hands. 

“Uh, I could make a research on that” She looks to Hotch who halts his movements as the others do too. 

“What are you thinking?” his expression is unreadable, but not unkind. 

“It’s just, the way the bodies are laying -” they all now turn towards your line of sight, “it looks identical. Husbands both laying in a fetal position turned left, and wives the opposite direction” 

Reid nods noticing that as well “That almost looks like it.” 

“I’m fairly sure they are supposed to be facing one another” 

“Like yin and yang” Reid says looking to you, completing your train of thought.

With everyone standing up, and bags on hand, it is useless to keep insisting on this one point but they all see it too now. 

“Right. Garcia, send us also layouts of the houses. We’ll check them on the _plane_ ” Hotch says the last word pointedly as he looks at you, now officially making everyone late. 

“Sorry” you mumble standing abruptly, gathering your own files and notes. 

He shakes his head, making sure you know an apology is not necessary. 

“You’ve got an eagle eye, kid” Rossi says, smirking, and you follow him out. 

_The first case on the team already, and unknowingly already you’d made an impression to the team too now._

\---

Boarded in the plane, and in flight, you learn that the team’s habit is to go over the details of the case again. You watch in fascination as they bounce ideas off each other. And Reid talking a mile minute on the statistics of domestic violence in Massachusetts right off the bat. 

“I have the house plans” Garcia shows up on the open laptop over the tiny table amongst them, and they all quiet down at once. 

“I just sent them to your tablets” 

You pick up yours, and scroll through. The houses are different – first 2 story classical colonial building, the second was a three-stories high structure, modern. You focus on the bedrooms and the bathrooms of the two. 

“Kuroki was right” Reid says aloud, his eyes and mind having already processed the information before anyone else. 

“Yes, _birdie_ was right” Garcia says loudly, “They’re both facing the same direction” 

“Birdie?” you mouth and Rossi meets your eyes, shrugging. 

“And they’re both south facing as well” You add. 

“Separated yin and yang? What’s the meaning of that?” Morgan asks aloud. “Is the unsub trying to send a message?” 

Reid places the tablet down, thinking it over before speaking: 

“There’s quite a lot of bibliography on the meaning of yin and yang but down to its core it describes how seemingly opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.” 

“So, he’s incredibly violent but also calculated” Prentiss sums up. 

“Hate to break in but there’s just been another one” Garcia breaks the discussion once again. “This one in an apartment” 

Flashes of new photos are uploaded in the tablet and everyone huddles close, flicking through them. 

“He’s crossed economic status now” Rossi says aloud, “This house is significantly smaller. And there’s a change in M.O - the kids are not separated by floors." 

“What is he trying to convey?” Prentiss asks aloud. 

You look around them, waiting for someone to add something more. 

Hotch lets out a sigh, “Garcia, tell the police chief to not move the bodies. Morgan, I want you and Kuroki out on the new crime scene. Reid and Rossi, to the M.E and Prentiss and I will go over to the precinct, and help set up. We will talk to the victims as well.” 

\- 

The immediate delve into the crime scene was a stark contrast to the familiarity of the airplane. The rest of flight had been easy, and peaceful. Everyone seeming to read up and get as much conversation going over the case. Sitting on the sofa next to Reid, a certain quietude had filled you up. Hotch had glanced at you once or twice, his own curiosity getting at him. He’d caught on the little mannerisms – the way your mind seemed to calculate the length of time necessary for the departure and landing, as you went to put on the seatbelt, without waiting for the seatbelt alarm to ring on; or the comfortable movement around the small confines of the space, as if you’d spent your entire life in private airplanes. He knew you’d had in a way or another, and Rossi too. 

Once arrived at the scene, Morgan retraces the movements of the killer. 

“Could it be one unsub?” he asks. 

The traces of blood splattered in the bedroom say so. 

“I believe so.” you say, “but how does he get the husband to go to the bathroom?” 

“Could be he waits for them, and he knows their exact schedules” 

“He’s watching them. For weeks or months” 

“So, there’s definitely a connection. They’re not victims of opportunity” Morgan says and with that, he leaves the bedroom. You follow him into the bathroom. 

The body of the husband is covered and he leans down, taking a quick peak to make sure the weapon has remained the same. 

“Stabbed 5 times again” 

You look around to the toothpaste and brush in their rightful place. Nothing out of line, apart from a couple of shampoo bottles fallen off from the bathtub. Most definitely from the struggle. 

“How does he subdue him” you ask, “and the woman remains in the bedroom after this struggle? If I’d heard this just a few steps away I’d come check it out” 

“Maybe they were drugged?” Morgan offers, standing up. He points at the dragging marks of the blood across the floor. “He is positioning the bodies the same way. Yin and yang.” 

“We need to look into the lives of the people. Could be he saw the husband as the opposite of the wife.” 

\- 

“That is another golden information – the husbands have a significantly lower educational status than their respective wives. And they're incredibly young too” Garcia says over the speakers, her bright face on the screen hanging on the conference room in the police precinct. 

“Could they be surrogates? He’s punishing them for their differences in the couple dynamics” Prentiss says. She’s standing close to the board, with Reid beside her working on the geographical profile. 

“It is such a specific combination though – I think we can find out the potential victims” you say. 

“On it!” Garcia yells out. “I’ll get you a list!” 

“The last husband is at least 10 years younger than the wife. The other couple had 20 years of age difference.” Morgan observes. 

“He’s going after cougars” you say aloud and you put the pen down on the table before you. The team all turn to you, expressions strange. 

“Cougars?” you repeat, “sexually active older women exclusively attracted to younger men?” 

“Right” Rossi nods, his brow furrowed, “I definitely knew what that was.” 

“They must have a place where they all go out to look for men. That could be how the unsubs finds them out and then discovers who married.” 

“Garcia” Hotch commands, his hands on his waist resembling a power pose, “check every bar in town where there’s events like this, or ones frequented by women older than 40 years old.” 

“Affirmative sir, I will circle this entire earth just to find all the cougars in this town for you” 

A light blush crosses her cheeks and she shakes her head, “uh, you know what I mean. Bye!” 

She hangs up and Rossi smiles at Hotch’s frowning face. You can’t help but stifle a laugh too. 

“So, we infiltrate the bars?” Prentiss asks, “interview the women for any strange individual they might have crossed paths with?” 

You respond before Hotch does. 

“You’re not a late 20 years old man” 

Hotch’s orders die out in his mouth, as he turns to stare at you. “If the unsub frequents these bars, we could scare him away.” 

Your eyes land on Reid and on Morgan. Hotch reads your mind. 

“Morgan, Reid, you can go through the bars and interview the clientele tonight” 

Reid’s face immediately becomes red, embarrassment already getting to him, but he nods nonetheless. 

“The rest of us will go over perfecting the profile” 

“Great” 

\-- 

It doesn’t take relatively long to find the unsub – the many boxes he’d checked as a sadist being someone who has long knowledge on Chinese culture, and drugs, and a painful past of being abandoned by a mother who frequented younger men on the regular in their home. Storming to the place the unsub was staying was the hardest part. He had an entire loft at his disposal with multiple entrances so the team split up – you and Prentiss together, Morgan and Reid to another angle, while Rossi and Hotch had respective teams of police officers at hand. 

When you and Prentiss find him, guns drawn, his reaction is quick, and you read it in his eyes before he does so. You holster your gun and sprint towards him as he runs out. 

“He’s headed east on park avenue!” you hear Prentiss yell behind you, as you jump down the stairs the same way the unsub had done. 

“Roger that” Hotch says in the comms. “We have cop cars blocking that exit” 

The unsub is quick and agile, climbing over fences and simultaneously trying to throw stuff back as obstacles for you to not catch up with him. You’re faster and once you see the lines of cop cars lined before you both, he’s shell-shocked, halting. You jump on him, knocking the wind out of him, your arms looping around his body, keeping him blocked. You both fall with a thud to the ground. His front blocking the fall. 

“Stop moving! It’s over!” You shout as you press your face to his, and you drag his arms to the back. Pin his wrists together and handcuff him, while he keeps struggling to get out. 

“You have the right to remain silent-” you start reciting, and Morgan is at your side, helping you hoist up the unsub. 

You walk him to the cop cars and throw him in. 

“Good job” Morgan flashes you a smile, as you both step back. “That was quite a tackle” 

“Thanks” you say. The adrenaline of the chase had died as soon as you’d grabbed him, and you’re grateful for Morgan showing up in time to steady the unsub. 

What you don’t see is Rossi and Hotch on the background, a few feet away, watching you. Rossi slaps a hand over Hotch’s shoulder, his eyes still transfixed on you. First, were the quick observations that nobody else had caught on, then the roundup of the profile and addresses, now _this_. Apart from being just an amazing shot, he saw you had other things up your sleeve. He crosses his arms across his front, impressed by the sight of you. 

“I don’t think we need to worry about her at all.” Rossi says, confirming his thoughts. Trainee or not, you had as equal of a spot as anybody else on his team. 

“That’s only the first case. Can’t wait to see what else she’s got” 

He sees Prentiss comes to join you by the cop car, smiling in approval and sweaty too, trying to catch up with both. You try to compose yourself, a hand over your forehead wiping the dirt from the tackle, the black tshirt revealing toned biceps. Your smile is tiny and almost shy, he notes, as Prentiss pats your shoulder.

Hotch’s head snaps to Rossi’s words _\- did he mean something else? Or had he gone deaf?_

“What do you mean?” he asks, offering his friend the benefit of the doubt. 

Rossi’s eyebrows went up as he stared back, “That she’s a good agent. What else?” 

\-- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all :))  
> Just to reiterate there's not gonna be anymore Hotch povs since I honestly suck at writing from a male point of view lmao idk what men think about.
> 
> and further on there will be quite a lot of time jumps. I"m not going to detail every instance but just memorable events to show how the character integrates with the team and each relationship with the cm characters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not long after joining the BAU, you find yourself surrounded by friends and not just colleagues. You realize this when out for drinks one night.

“Honey? Sugar-plum? Sweety-pie?” Penelope smiles widely as you finally meet her eyes before yet another 30 sugary words fall from her lips. Her elbows are now fully positioned on the small round table the both of you and the rest – Reid, Prentiss, Morgan, Hotch and Rossi, are huddled around. Her grin is lopsided and her glasses drop slightly from the bridge of her nose. The others don’t seem to mind it, the way she’s got everyone’s attention and winning the competition of most drinks so far into the night, but you do. Especially since you’re not used to it...yet. Her cocktail glass is almost empty and Emily Prentiss, at your left lets out a giggle, knowing already what she’s about to ask – her drink is half empty too. You finally give up – seems to be your fate this night to end up as the responsible driver to everyone else. 

“Yes?” 

Penelope’s attention is caught by Morgan who mumbles a sorry to the table and goes straight to the bar. He doesn’t make it that far as a few girls – trainees from the academy catch up with him and invite him to their table. Penelope says something under her breath that resembles a spite of envy – towards whom though it is unclear. 

“Garcia?” you call at her again. Knowing her surname gets her attention more. She turns now, remembering why she wanted you. 

“What do you say about shots?” 

Emily laughs at that. 

“You want to make her drunk already?” 

Rossi, who’s been talking the entire time to Hotch since you all entered the pub, glances at you for a second, before resuming. 

“She can stay sober if she insists” Penelope slurs through her straw – still lingering on her bottom lip as if not noticing yet the lack of liquid from the glass. 

“Let her make the decision, no?” Emily says and she turns to you. She’s beautiful as always, a low top hanging from her shoulders and a pearl necklace tight at her throat. Her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol or the club, or the way everyone seems to be pressed to each other in these circumstances. It had happened the last 2 times as well, when they invited you over for girl's night out and then when it was Morgan’s birthday party. She is stuck in between you and Morgan, who left much needed space for the table, while you’ve got Hotch pressed on your other side, emanating more heat than a lit stove. But not uncomfortable. 

“Are you going to latch unto that beer all night?” 

You know she doesn’t mean anything by it, not really, but you still can’t help feeling infantilized. 

“No,” you let out and without thinking you down the whole thing – the whole half pint that’s been sitting before you for an hour. 

Her eyebrows go up. 

“Easy there.” She says and making sure nobody else is paying attention she lowers her head towards yours. 

“You have nothing to prove here” she says softly and her hot breath fans over your cheek. 

Your eyes go inadvertently to Penelope, embarrassed that she might catch your reaction to that – your cheeks flushing, your eyes inadvertently peering for half a second at the low collar of Emily’s shirt. But she’s passed to talking to Spencer Reid about a tv show. 

It’s different in the field or in the office – Emily is just another authority figure to you. She assists you and vice versa and it’s never developed before to anything else – not that _this_ is anything else. Yet, your mind can’t help but wonder where she _leans._ You just don’t want to be the one to ask her first. Your attention goes to Reid and Garcia’s bubble as you hear your name. 

“- it’s this big event and apparently it’s super exclusive but Saya said her girlfriend worked there.” 

Spencer turns to you – “Didn’t you mention your girlfriend worked there?” His voice is loud and super enthusiastic, not uncommon for him but it shakes out Rossi and Hotch’s attention too. 

“What?” 

“At Hotel Laurel? In New York?” 

You recall the conversation then, not two nights ago when Spencer was talking about comic cons and his favorite tv show – a story spanning for many years as the main character changes per season, still successful as ever. He’d gone over the details of a New York event of next February and how he’d been on the waitlist for hours but hadn’t won tickets – so you said you’d ask your girlfriend, Lola, who still is a manager at the establishment if she’d get him in. Unbeknownst to him, you’d already broken it off with her in good terms because of the long distance. 

“Ex-girlfriend” you correct and Reid nods, absent-mindedly. 

“She still works there, right?” He’s got a pencil in hand that you can’t even fathom where he’d gotten it in this context. 

“Yeap” you nod and Rossi’s fully staring at you now, not even hiding it. 

“Can you please tell her about Penelope too? It’d be nice if we could both go, if it’s not a bother” 

“Sure” you say and Penelope and Emily exchange weird looks. 

“That’s great, thanks!” 

You finally catch onto them, when Penelope let’s out a long sigh. Her shoulders slouch forward and she finally lets out the straw from her teeth, as she wipes her mouth with a napkin. 

“I didn’t know you weren’t straight. I told Emily about this friend of mine who’d be perfect for you just a week ago.” 

“Uh -” you’re dumbstruck. “thanks?” 

“She’s only half-joking" Emily cuts in, raising a hand at Penelope whose mouth hangs open – wanting to add more to that story. 

“She does this with everyone,” Emily says and Rossi nods, confirming that too. 

“Even with me” 

Your eyebrows knit together trying to imagine how that conversation must have went. 

“I had to tell her I’d have to fire her if she brought it up again” Rossi says and you laugh. 

“Can you do that?” 

“No”, Rossi says flatly, “but I have a good friend who can” he turns to Hotch who’s smiling at his side. 

“Could I use that excuse too?” 

Your eyes pass to Hotch as if for permission and he shakes his head, amused. It’s strange almost, to see him like this – not frowning, not serious at all times, and even joking around though with a dry humor. It makes him attractive, especially under the dark red lighting of the club. _Bastard_ , you think. Which reminds you. 

“I’m not straight but _unfortunately_ , I still am attracted to men.” Your eyes shift towards Penelope who’s been frowning the entire time - she perks up at that. “If it makes you feel better, you can introduce me to him when I’m ready for a new relationship” 

“ _Unfortunately_?” Emily repeats beside you, with a loud laugh. 

“You’re bi?” Penelope asks, with a certain giddiness that used to frighten you when you first came out. 

“Technically,” Spencer breaks her line of thought, “recent demographics have shown that 3.5% of adults in the US say they identify as LGB and bisexual people make for the largest amount of that percentage. Especially considering gender identity and sexuality is ever fluid” 

And it’s kind, and incredibly heartening to hear Spencer so easily confirm and use science for something that the rest of the world seems to not catch onto yet – and it brings joy to your features too. In the short time you’d been at the BAU, Spencer had been the easiest to discuss with. He’s the smartest and the one with no judgement – just pure logical being, but not unaffected by emotions. 

“Thanks doc” you say and he grins back. 

“It’s the facts” 

And you consider it, that same way back at the academy or at university when it’d been easier to bond with someone in a very short span of time – was Spencer, _you know?_

“Morgan’s abandoned us.” Emily says aloud, “I called it for 1 hour – somebody needs to pay me my money!” 

And just like that, Rossi, Reid and Penelope too, all empty out their pockets and pass money to her. They’d made a bet for how long it would take for Morgan to make an attempt to return to their table. Sitting surrounded by the trainees and his arm now hooked around the seat of a beautiful woman with short hair, Morgan had stopped looking back to the table of his team and had settled with a beer at theirs. 

“I can’t believe I lost” Rossi says. “I was right the last 4 times” 

“Yes,” Emily says, “but Saya is here.” she smiles at you brilliantly, “Derek is too polite for his own good to leave before the new bird is properly settled” You try not to linger on _new bird_ _,_ that had become your nickname already, coined by Garcia and Morgan together. 

“Have you guys been betting on Morgan for a long time?” 

“Oh, since forever” Penelope says, “and I never get it right” 

“How come Reid didn’t win?” you ask the obvious, “I’d assumed you’ve memorized the average time it takes form him to be picked up.” 

“Even the genius can’t predict that” Rossi says and slaps Reid’s right shoulder, who in turn gasps aloud. 

“That’s kind of mean” 

“You sure you’re not mad at not being told to about the bet?” Emily asks and the rest of them laugh. 

“It would have been nice to be included, yes” 

Hotch’s smile is wide at that and he takes a sip of the beer in his hand. He’s shrugged the suit jacket off his shoulders and remaining in a white button-up and no tie, collarbones showing, he almost looks like the polar opposite of the man who barks orders with a sharp severity at day time. Your eyes have been returning to where he stands for some time now, with a mind of their own. There’s just _something_ about the lighting. 

“Does he ever return?” You ask to nobody in particular and Penelope’s huff is enough of an answer. 

“Are there bets about that?” Your eyes go back to the woman on Derek’s right, whose shoulder’s he’s leaned on. Though the angle is not much she still looks eerily familiar. 

“No need” 

“What if I call on one? Huh?” you look at the faces around you and Emily laughs. 

“You can join in next time, kiddo” Rossi says. 

“10 dollars if he comes back?” you ask and Reid’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“All of my studies on Morgan indicate that your chances are super low. I strongly advice against that” 

“I still want to take my chances” you say and this time, you fish for the cash in your front pocket. When you find a 20-dollar bill, you slap it over the table. 

“I won’t be butthurt” you say again and that’s all the confirmation they need. 

Penelope starts first, followed by Prentiss and Rossi. Reid’s still looking at you, trying to decipher something from your features. But they’re steeled and they still don’t know everything about you or how to read you completely like the profilers they are. 

“I’d feel bad about winning against you, knowing the odds are stacked on our favor” 

“I’d get what I deserved” 

He doesn’t hesitate then, but brings a 10 to the table. 

Hotch raises his hands up, not wanting to meddle, “I have my own reasons” 

"Why," you draw out, voice warm like honey, and mostly teasing "because you're the boss?" You think you imagine the way his eyes momentarily drop to your lips, and he nods. Face unrelenting but the small smile in his lips making his cheekbones pop up attractively.

“Fair” you say, and you look back at Morgan and his new group of friends. “I think 5 minutes from now we’d start seeing results, no?” 

And it takes less than that, when Morgan looks back at the table, then at you specifically as you’d predicted. He stands up and everybody at your table holds their breath. The woman who sat beside him, petite, short-haired dressed with a little black dress follows suit. 

“Damn, I think you’re going to face your loss right in the face as it walks by you” Emily says but unexpected from everyone but you – they make a beeline towards you, not the exit. 

“No fucking way” Penelope says in-between sucked teeth. 

“What the fuck is happening right now” Emily mutters. 

Rossi just turns to stare at you, completely dumbfounded. 

“Holy shit” Those are the last words Reid lets out, as Morgan and the girl reach your table both grinning. 

“Hey, Morgan” Hotch greets casually, adding fuel to the fire. 

“Hey guys, I wanted to introduce you to a friend” he makes way for the girl who steps forward. She breaks out in a wide smile as she sees your face. 

“This is Phoebe, she’s finishing this year” 

The guys all turn to look at you instead having realized what’s happening. 

“Saya?” she asks aloud, and in a blink, her arms loop around your neck, bringing you down aggressively into a hug. She’s cheering loudly into your ears but you don’t mind it, not when you just won a bet. 

“Hey Phoebs” 

“Ohmygod” she lets you off her arms and lets out a breathy smile. “Margot mentioned that you joined the BAU but I couldn’t believe it! I’m so happy for you” 

“Uh, thanks” you smile at her kindly but you pull back, letting go of the sister of your first girlfriend, who’s _also not straight_ , “I think Morgan was about to introduce you to them, if you let him” 

“Right!” she says blushing and she lets go of your hands, and slides back beside Morgan “Sorry about that- “ 

But nobody is paying attention anymore. Penelope is the first to speak, her eyes narrowed at you. 

“You son of a bit- “ 

\---------------- 


	4. Half-light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch brings up your unit in Dallas, curious to know about your past there.

“Saya?” 

You look from your paperwork to where Spencer in your left sits at, also submerged in paperwork at his desk. His are spread neatly in two piles, but the rest of the desk is a mess, notebooks and pens spread out. 

“Hmm?” 

The rest of the team is similarly focused, as reports take their attention. 

“Do you have the report from the Mullers case?” His ears hold back the array of hair on his head, messy from always running his hands through them. 

“Yes” you reply and look for it. Your desk is just a simple disorder. Not too dissimilar to Spencer’s but it takes some time to find the right file. 

“Here you go” he reaches over and grabs it, mumbling a tiny thanks. 

You lean back on your chair, and you hear your back crack from being slouched for so long over the table. You stretch and spread your limbs like a cat and Derek catches your eyes smiling. 

“Tired?” he asks, as he places his own pen down. 

You shrug, “just numb” 

Prentiss near him pipes up, “coffee break?” 

Spencer pays no mind to them, just extends his cup at you wordlessly. It had become an automatic instinct for him, asking for coffee whenever it was mentioned. You take his cup from his hands and yours and stand up. 

Derek pushes his seat away from his desk but makes no effort to move. 

“How does Spence convince you to do that without saying anything? When I ask you for a favor you always hesitate” 

You shrug. 

“I can fill your cup” you offer. 

He’s still grinning stupid-big. 

“Nah, that’s not what I mean” 

“Then what do you mean?” 

“Ya know-“ he starts and puts his feet up on the table. “It’s like you read his mind” 

You let out a breath rolling your eyes, 

“It doesn’t take much to know he runs solely on caffeine” 

Spencer doesn’t react at all, his focus so strong that nothing can break it. 

“Really?” Derek asks, “Thought he needed only paper and dye, like a printer or scanner” He bunches up a piece of paper in his hand then throws it at Spence’s shoulder who only looks up with furrowed eyebrows. Then as if nothing happened, he continues with his work. You’re very envious of his unwavering attention span. You shift the two cups, holding the handles by a thumb in one hand and place the other hand on your hip. 

“Do you want a refill or no?” 

Emily stands up, letting out a small chuckle, shaking her head at you both. 

“Yes please” he says, smile all teeth but your face doesn’t break. 

“Jeez “ Derek says, studying you as you take his empty mug, “Is there anything that can make you laugh?” 

You gasp, taken aback by his question. 

“I laugh plenty” 

“When?” he rebuts. 

“All the time!” 

He crosses his arms to the back of his head, much too proud from getting a rise out of you. 

“In 1905?” 

You glance at him for a beat. So uncalled for. 

“I laugh, _Derek”_

“I have never seen it happen so I don’t think so” 

Emily marches to the coffee machine and calls back: 

“Just ignore him” 

But you don’t know if you can, not when he looks so smug, and a part of you is offended. 

“I’m almost certain I’ve never seen you out in the sun either” 

You take that as a cue to stop letting his words get to you and join Emily. _Is he calling you a vampire now?_

Emily gives you a small smile. She stretches out her limbs as well and takes a mug from your hand, helping you with the refills. 

“How many have you got left?” she asks, just to change the subject. 

“I don’t know” you answer truthfully. If you’d ordered the piles than maybe you would. Her eyebrows rise up slightly at that but she makes no remark. 

“You?” 

“Just two more” she says and changes the cups at the machine, hers already full. The smell of coffee fills the air, and that is enough to make you feel a bit more encouraged for the rest of the day ahead. 

“That’s super fast” you note and she nods, looking smug. 

“I’m literally competing against Spencer” 

“Does he know that?” 

She shakes her head, “if he did, he’d have already won by now” 

You let out a small huff of air instead of a laugh. 

When the cups are full she takes Derek’s and hers, leaving them on the respective desks. And you leave Spencer’s over the corner of yours, nearest to him, careful not to break his focus. But you don’t sit just yet. You want to enjoy the feeling of your stretched legs before sitting down. Not to move again for another 4 hours. 

“Kuroki!” 

Hotch’s thunderous order makes you almost jump out of your skin. You turn quickly. He stands in front of his office, and you realize you haven’t yet responded. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Can I see you in my office?” 

“Sure” you say and when he doesn’t see you move, his tall figure leans against his open door.“Now, Kuroki” he orders and you scurry. 

Climb the stairs in a flash, and mutter a soft apology as you walk past him and into his office. 

You stand awkwardly in the middle, spine too straight and posture too unnatural. 

He closes the door behind him, and that’s another thing that makes you worried for a split second. 

He watches you, his eyebrows knitted together. 

“Sit down, please” 

Even though there’s a ‘please’ in there it still sounds like an order. You oblige feeling your face warm already for a whole multitude of other reasons rather than the possibility of him reprimanding you over something on the job. 

He sits at his desk, arms crossed over the wooden surface, and watches you for a second. 

“There’s nothing to worry about” he says. It’s a simple attempt to calm you. Yet your face has been steeled since walking in, not showing any emotions, and you don’t know how he can still read the worry in your face. 

“I have a few matters to discuss” 

You kind of want to ask what this is about, already a bit impatient, but you hold up. 

“First, good job on the Graaf case. You and Prentiss did well tracking his location” 

You’re sure your cheeks are flushed. Honestly, just a good word from him over your literal responsibilities, and it gets more reaction from you than someone attractive at a bar complimenting your looks. You’d noticed this strange phenomenon 1 month into working with the team. He said “great work” once, not specifically directed at you, just at the team in general, and you’d taken it to heart. And now, rounding at the 4th month, this keeps on going. 

You don’t react, unable to predict how your voice might sound. 

“I think I need to remind you that you don’t have to carry on the same workload as the others” 

The feeling dies down at that. Quickly replaced by shame. 

“Your duties as a trainee are limited as you know. You don’t have to finish all the paperwork for instance” 

You feel discomfort, and you shift a slight in your seat. 

“Or in the field -” 

“I don’t see how I will be _trained_ by not doing anything” You interrupt, “or being locked up in the office” 

He pauses, stern look on his face and you think he might have not enjoyed you cutting into his monologue. 

“With all due respect, sir” you add, and you feel stupid right away. 

There’s a beat before he starts talking. 

“I know” he simply says. “But I don’t want you to overcompensate for your lack of title” 

You’re red from embarrassment, and look down, not bearing his eyes on you anymore. _That’s what he thought you were doing? Working harder and more than the others just because you felt your ego bruised from the transferal? Technically, a demotion?_

“I’m not doing that” you say, and you look up tentatively, “I think” 

“Good, then” he affirms, “The team works better when ego is not at the forefront” 

“It isn’t” you confirm once again, your voice more confident. 

He looks convinced at your words and you are too. Maybe you have been a bit pushier and more impatient lately, but that isn’t just because you felt like you weren’t enough in the team. It’s also a matter of trying to find the right equilibrium and settling down at a steady pace. Because this is a new job – whatever the title. And Penelope had helped make you feel more comfortable in the office. While Emily and Reid had let you find your own rhythm of working. But you know Hotch already knows all this. So, that can’t be all. 

“You didn’t call me in here just for this, right?” you ask and await his reaction. 

“No” he says, and intertwines his fingers with one another over the table. “Agent Aria is being investigated for verbal and emotional abuse at the workplace. She’s been suspended, pending investigation” 

You draw in a breath. 

“What?” 

His eyes train on your facial features, expecting emotion to filter out. 

“A lot of agents have come forward making similar statements.” 

“When?” you ask, and your hands in your lap are gathered in fists. 

“Last month” he says, and there’s a sudden rush of anger and confusion at your throat, making your entire mouth taste bitter. 

“I understand if you want to take a leave, or days off to reunite with your former colleagues for support. I will grant you as many days as you wish” 

You focus on his face, always so unrelenting, so rigid you can’t even read anything through it. Why are profilers the hardest ones to read? And yet you know Hotch being as kind as this, even though a good thing, with the way he phrases the offer that there is a hidden question lingering. 

"I wasn’t a victim, if that’s what you’re asking” 

He nods slowly, and you don’t miss the way his hands relax over the desk. 

“Do you know who came forward? Who made the statements?” 

He shakes his head, “Have you read them?” 

“I found out yesterday evening” 

And he told you as fast as he could, you assume. 

Words escape your throat, barely heard and full of emotion. You can’t stop thinking of Verona, and Marquez. Had Revi gone through it too? 

“I-I didn’t know” you mumble again. “I feel _so goddamn stupid_ ” 

Hotch’s eyebrows remain furrowed but there’s sadness in them, and a hint of anger. 

“I worked with them for 5 years and I didn’t notice anything. I’m so _fucking dumb”_

_“_ It’s not your fault” he says, voice soft. “Nobody knew” 

“Yes, but I was in that team Hotch. I wasn’t an outsider. What kind of profiler am I?” You put a hand over your forehead, “I spent most of my time with them. We travelled together. We hanged out together even outside of work. And I never realized-” 

“She was good at hiding it” he cuts you off, “abusers are experts at hiding, and appearing nice and pleasant to others” 

There’s an underlying statement there, too much emotion in his voice for this to just be a profile. 

“Was she ever nice and pleasant to you?” 

Hotch exhales, "No. Never” 

You let out a laugh, too short and quick to be anything. 

“She wasn’t even with me. And she had to see my face every day for 5 years” Then another thought pops in your head just as fast, “ _fuck_ , you think she’s been getting away with it her entire career?” 

“I don’t know” he answers, “it’s not uncommon” 

You drop back against the seat, and look up at the ceiling. The daylight entering through the windows plays shadows over the white surface and Revi is the first person in your mind. You don’t know what’s worse – knowing Revi had spent a childhood living with physical abuse from his father, and then ending up working unknowingly for another abuser, or him never being able to escape the cycle of abusers. Everything is too much; you realize as your eyes focus on the ceiling fan of Hotch’s office. There are tears prickling at your eyes, but they’re out of anger. 

“There’s another thing-” Hotch starts. 

You turn to him. He’s been keeping quiet, letting you collect yourself. 

“We have been asked to work with a joint team in the Dallas office, so if you want to back out, I would understand” 

“Back out?” you ask, “I’m not going to let this distract me” 

His gaze lingers on your face, unsure yet. 

“Hotch, I want to be there with the team” 

He reads the quiet desperation in your voice, and the conviction too. So, he yields. 

“Okay, fine” 

\------------- 

You're desperate you know, as you send the umpteenth message to Verona who still doesn’t reply. She hasn’t texted you back since you’d notified her that you were in Dallas. Same with Marquez and the others. Heck, you’d even texted Marsten, who you spoke to just out of necessity in the field, and even he’d stopped writing as soon as you touched down on Dallas.   
You feel Hotch’s eyes on you, and when you look up, he’s there, standing up before your seat, the team already out of the airplane. 

“Everything okay?” 

“I don’t know why you keep asking me that” you let out, fumbling with your seatbelt. You finally take it off, frustration making your fingers shake. You push yourself out with force and before you can grab your go-bag, Hotch reaches for it. He takes both his and yours and walks out the airplane, not granting you another comment. 

_Maybe you are letting this get to you._

Once in the SUV, you don’t know how you end up once again with Hotch. He drives the car, Rossi at the passenger’s and you’re shoved in the back. You type another message to Marquez and hit send – this one just a “want to catch a movie tonight?” - which is just about the fakest thing you’ve written. Like you and him had ever done anything outside of work when on an active case. You have half a mind to call Garcia, and make her track them all down. And it’s an idea that bounces around in your head for a while, sounding more and more rational as times goes by. 

Then the car stops. You look out the window. The police precinct is just right outside. 

_Fuck_ , you breathe out. _You need to calm down._

\-- 

There’s not much you can do in this case. Apparently Hotch takes the fact you are supposed to be a trainee to heart today. So, you’re keeping Reid company, as he draws out the geographical profile. His silent working, the soft mumbling to himself, and fast movements whenever he figures out something new is a rhythm that makes your mind relent its stress. You focus on his long delicate fingers as he takes a thick red marker to the board, circling a house and his head snaps at you.   
He’s been talking and you tune into his words. 

“What?” 

He flinches, but repeats. 

“What do you think of _la_ _quinta_ _?”_

_“Country-house?”_ you translate, but he already knows what that means. 

“La Quinta is an Archaic term referring to a type of hacienda or rest-stop reached every five days on a long journey.” 

You remember, despite the stress, the details of this case. 

“He’s taking a _literal_ 5-days-journey?” 

“Well, he’s keeping his victims for 5 days, each of them” He points with the end of the marker the locations he’s spotted on the map, all near valleys or wide patches of nature. You stand up, walking to where he stands. 

“He’s delusional” you say aloud, your mind solely on the map in front of you. Reid nods, having come to that same conclusion. 

“And I think I know where he’s going to take them next.” he says. 

\---- 

Hotch allows you all 2 hours to collect your things, and make it to the air strip. Everyone’s already scrambled back to their hotel rooms, to get their bags. You’d taken yours in the morning, hoping to receive a call or text from someone from your former team – asking you to stay over. It never happened. You insist on cleaning up the documents and the office, though, not when you hadn’t given any significant contribution to the case. And they let you, no question asked. 

You’re already done with the boxes, and any needless paper is discarded in the garbage cans. You also change the trash bags for some reason, the guilt of not helping your team, heavy on your shoulders. 

There’s a soft knock on the door, and you stand up, expecting it to be Hotch, or a police officer. Or someone just about to ask you what the heck you’re up to with 2 trash bags on your hands. 

But it’s not. 

“Emory” you breathe out. 

Loose blonde hair frames her face, almost white like her mother’s. Her posture is straight, just like hers and her eyes are just as piercing. Yet the blue streak in her hair, the torn-up jeans and the sleeve tattoos covering her entire arms sign the deep desire she has to not resemble her mother, at all. 

“Hey” you place the trash bags on the floor, and she nods. 

“Hey Saya,” 

Out of all people you had expected to meet today, Aria’s 19 years old daughter hadn’t been on your list. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, and she takes a step inside the conference room. Empty and devoid of any violent images from the case the team had solved after 3 whole days in Dallas. 

“I heard you were back” she says. 

That’s a lie. 

“You did?” 

She looks right and left, a clear tell, and back down at her shoes. 

“I saw the news of the missing girls” she admits, “I thought you might be called in to investigate. I was right” 

She offers you a small smile but you remain quiet. 

“That’s not an answer” you say, and a flash of hurt crosses her eyes. 

“I need to know”, she starts, “Nobody will answer me. My dad, or my uncle.” Both of them being part of the Bureau too, alongside Aria. 

“And I tried to get in touch with her colleagues – just to understand-” 

“Emory” you cut her off, “I don’t think that was a good idea” 

Her face changes quickly into that of anger. 

“No! You don’t understand! Nobody will tell me anything!” Her voice rises up, tears already streaming down her face. You step in closer, making an attempt to bring her arms down, as they flail around in the air aggressively. 

“I need to know if she really did all those things, they say she did to people. The people she’s responsible for!” 

And it tugs at you, the hidden implication of her words hitting you at once. 

“Emory. I don’t know-” you whisper, afraid she’s going to run out of your hold. 

“Did she treat them the same way she did me?” her tone of voice almost brings you to tears too. Her arms relax at the contact. Her blue eyes are identical copies of Aria’s, but her gaze is not harsh. Nothing like hers. You bring her swiftly into your arms and she melts. Her head falls on your shoulders and she’s as tiny as she first was when Aria had brought her around on the office for the first time 5 years ago. 

“So, I didn’t imagine it?” she mumbles, her body shaking with heavy sobs. You smooth down her hair as she cries onto your shoulder. You don’t know what else you’re meant to do but hold her. 

You’re there for what feels like hours, calming her down from her state as she regains her composure. You hold her hand in yours, sitting in front of her as she opens up about everything. Tears are caked with her make up. 

You think you imagine Hotch’s figure passing by the open glass doors, followed by 2 police officers. 

You shake your head. 

“I think you need to talk to someone, Emory. Someone that can help” you say softly. 

She nods, takes her hand back to wipe at her face again. 

“Thanks for listening to me” 

“Always” you offer her a small smile, “But I don’t live here anymore. I can’t be the only one you open to.” 

“I know” she says, “A friend offered to take me to a therapist” 

“That’s good” 

It had taken just a simple repetition from Revi, when he said Charles had invited you and him over for dinner at their household. And then you ended up forming a lifelong professional connection with Aria’s husband, Charles. Then a month after, Revi insisted you both drive their daughter from a safe house location back to their house when a case had gone south. Knowing Emory was all because of Revi. You wonder if he saw something in her, before you ever did. Hotch's voice plays over in your head. _Children of abuse recognize one another._

“I should go” she says, breaking the silence. She stands up and you follow. 

“Thanks again” 

You open the door, popping an elbow over the handle. The police precinct outside is as chaotic as ever. No time passed it seems. 

Emory looks embarrassed, hands at her side back to the choker around her neck. 

“Take care” you say and she nods. You watch her leave, moving through the desks and heading directly to the exit doors. 

As the doors close behind her, a small weight lifts from your chest. She will be fine, you mumble to yourself. You hope Revi knows that too. 

“Kuroki” You turn towards the familiar voice, feeling his presence close by. Hotch stands at your right, that same gray suit paired with a red tie you thought you’d seen on him few minutes ago. Unbeknownst to you, he’d arrived in the precinct with the excuse of meeting a few police officers before heading to the air strip. Only to make sure you were fine. He’d seen you talk to Aria’s daughter and he knew right away what it was about. 

His gaze is where yours followed Emory. Fixated on the exits. You don’t know how long he’s been there. If he even witnessed the whole commotion. He places a hand over your shoulder. The light squeeze of his warm palm shoots heat straight through your back, relaxing the tensed muscles there at once. You look up at him. His face remains at a neutral expression, but his dark brown eyes are gentle. 

“Ready to leave?” he asks. 

You nod, “Yes, please” 

\-- 

“I have something to say. I owe it to you guys after I didn’t contribute anything in the last case” 

They all turn their heads at you, beers in hand. You’d thought about it, long and hard. Whether keeping Aria’s investigation a secret or not. But as Hotch had said a few days ago, the case would gain traction once it went to court. It’s better coming from your lips. 

“My former unit chief in Dallas, SSA Aria is suspended, pending investigation over emotional and verbal abuse by her agents.” 

Spencer and Derek react first. The latter’s hand coming to wrap over yours. 

You shake your head, “She never did anything to me. But I was still all over the place on the last case. I apologize” 

“ _Birdie_ it’s okay” Penelope mutters softly, and Derek nods at her words. 

“We realized something was up, actually” Emily’s at your side and she shrugs. 

“But you don’t have to apologize” 

It’s comforting and vulnerable at best to open up in front of all of them at once. And they’re understanding, offering words of empathy over everything. 

So you down a few beers in response. And they follow, now that everything is all out on the table. They do their best to distract you. And before you know it the night goes on and it gets easier. 

“Do you ever think about how far away from a stressor each one of us is?” Spencer Reid asks, his eyes searching for signs in all of your faces. He’s downed a few beers, which makes him come up with that terrifying question. 

Derek, as if reading your mind, takes the current bottle of beer sitting before Reid, as the latter gasps. 

“You know that it’s not just the stressor that makes them like this” Emily says, taking a sip of her beer, beside you. Her arm bumps into yours from time to time, all because of the small corner table of this pub you are all huddled around – the only one available when everyone had been late to show up. 

All of them are so ridiculously attractive - a thought that occurred to you only when you weren’t sober and they were standing in front of you just like now, all circling the high metallic round table lit by a hanging light above. If Spencer, the tallest of the group, moved just an inch, just a tiny bit forward his forehead would bump into the white light. But he rarely stands straight, his posture always hunched over, and yet he never lacks confidence. Spencer with his sharp features and sharp jawline, tall and imposing, his hair a wild mess over his head – could have easily been a supermodel. If Spencer didn’t hate the fashion industry with all his might, of course. 

“It’s their inability to feel remorse, or any emotions”, she continues and Derek nods, his attention caught from time to time from a girl at the bar he’d been eyeing since he arrived. 

“I’m not here to talk about work, thank you very much” Garcia slurs, on the other side of you. Her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol. She is chubby and tender and she smiles at you whenever you catch her eye, while she sips her Pina colada with a stringy straw. 

“Okay fine”, Emily lifts her arms up in surrender, “but he said it first” she points a long dainty finger at Spencer who gasps in turn. You laugh again, loving each of his reactions. The alcohol has gotten to his cheeks, flushing them with a deep pink, and although he is not wearing a vest today, he still looks like he just got off work. Too composed, yet his expression unguarded, and a little bit naïve. Spencer not sober was quite a sight to see. 

“Then I will go find somewhere else where I’m needed”, he snatches the beer out of Derek’s grip and turns on his heel. He marches to where Agent Anderson and Agent Morrison are sitting on a L-shaped couch, talking loudly over the music about some board game or something. 

“Stop scaring him” Derek says pointedly at Emily and she winks. Your heart does a somersault. With a red tank top hugging her smooth lines and showing off her biceps – she was the most plain dressed out of the whole bunch. Yet Emily was everything but plain, she looks feminine - with her luscious black hair shining under the lights of the club, and her long eyelashes and full lips - and both strong with her demeanor … _Jesus Christ, if you stared any longer, girls would be ruined for you for at least a year._ The woman knows she is attractive and she used it to her advantage every single time. You admire her, sure. But you also can’t help noticing that the black-haired woman standing beside you, with short bangs covering her dark eyebrows, eyes painted with smokey eyeshadow, was quite a hit. In every single outing. She refuses dating other agents; you’d heard her say more than once. Yet she played the game, seeking entertainment from the way men acted around her. _If she wasn’t your superior, you’d thought once coming home drunk from your first social outing with the BAU_... She’d been exactly your type to pine over. And if she wasn’t so undeniably straight, a voice in your head insists upon. You shake your head. You’d left the pining over straight women back in college, where it belonged with your other deep-rooted issues. 

“Rossi isn’t coming?” Penelope asks, and she looks at the door, her hands not letting go of the drink once. 

“Something about him not being able to wake up early tomorrow or something” Derek waves as he explains. You’d wonder later what was that about. Why the two men, oldest ones of the team just didn’t participate in any of these events Penelope and Emily organized – unless they were dragged out with force out of the office. 

\- 

_“_ _Hotch_ _has a son”, Penelope Garcia says to you one month into your traineeship._ _You’d seen the photos in his office either way._ _“He’s the cutest kid you’ve ever seen, promise” and you smile at that, not doubting her words for a second._

_“So, if you ever have any questions about anything please come to me first,” you follow her into her office, a room taken up with computer screens wall to wall, “I will try to help you. I don’t want him to have to stay longer than he has to.” She sits on her chair and turns to you, hoping you can read between the lines that_ _Hotch_ _needs as much time as possible with his kid, even though he’s super engaged with his work._

_“Of course, thank you Garcia”, you say without having to think it over. She smiles then, relieved you didn’t need more convincing._

_“Please call me Penelope when we aren’t working.”_

\- 

“How’s your new girl?” Emily turns to you then, and you almost spit out the sip of beer you just took. 

Derek’s full attention snaps to you then, “Oh?” he says. He should have been more intimidating to you, his large body and his looks - and confidence radiating in every room he’d walk into. He simply hadn’t been because he was the friendliest man you’d ever met. Couple that with the banter he and Penelope had, and you simply couldn’t help but feel affection. 

You wipe your mouth, “How’d you know?” 

You’d met a barista at a coffee shop just 3 months ago, who’d written her number on your to-go cup and you’d called her that weekend. It had been a few dates already but you hadn’t changed your schedule, knowing how profilers think. 

“You can’t keep anything from me, even if you tried”, she says and cocks an eyebrow, knowing you just admitted that she’s right. 

“She’s...” you start and Derek and Penelope are both looking at you now. Penelope has also stopped hogging her drink. 

“-okay?” you offer and your voice sounds too questionable for your liking. 

“Oh-uh” Derek lets out, “that’s never a good thing.” He searches your face for any signs, trying to see if you broke it off or she did. “I should know”, he says. 

Penelope slaps his hand softly, “not always!” 

“It’s just”, you start and your cheeks heat up. You feel like a child, with their eyes on you. Just 5 months into your traineeship but they already knew a lot about you. Knew your inclinations and you’d accepted – also your body language. 

“She’s great and all but her job is quite demanding” 

“ _Her_ job?” Penelope asks now. 

“Well, yeah” you admit, “she’s also studying at the University of Virginia, and working part-time as a babysitter and at the coffee shop too” 

They all nod then, understanding something you hadn’t. 

“I dated a guy once” Emily says, “he said his golfing was important to him and he couldn’t stop doing it.” 

They nod at that too. 

“What?” you ask, a smile perched on your lips. “It’s not like that. We tried to hang out in between her schedule and mine” Derek shakes his head, knowing you are in denial. 

“ _Birdie_ , if they wanted to make it work, they would have.” 

“But, no-” you want to insist on it but now the way Sarah, the coffee shop barista, would leave your messages unread even at lunch break when you knew she had more than enough time to pause and do something else, was now an eye opener to you.

“Ah fuck.” you let out. They let out a kind laugh. 

“Happens to all of us”, Derek says and you question it really. Coming from him. How many girls _really_ had left him on read? 

Emily’s hand squeezes yours making you halt in asking that question. 

“You’ll find your girl, don’t worry about it" she says and her smile is bright and friendly. 

“Or guy” Penelope chimes in, “he could walk in right at this exact moment!” 

All of you, drunk out of your minds, turn to stare at the pub door then, but it doesn’t open. You all ride out the suspense, waiting. Agent Inouve, an old man at his 60s dressed in a grey dull suit walks in then, almost lost. You all burst into high-pitched laughter. 

“Go get your man!” 

The entire pub seems to turn to your table, laughter not stopping. You pretend to stand up, put on lip-gloss and batt your eyelashes. 

“Wish me luck, guys” and the laughter continues even louder. 

Reid, sitting by Anderson and Morrison, grins, the laughter infecting him too. 


	5. Gone Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rossi begs you to help Hotch on a personal thing, forcing you both to confront one another after a long month of not being able to see eye to eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of physical abuse and homophobia

“Agent Kuroki” you answer the phone. 

“Hey Kuroki, it’s me” David Rossi says on the other line and you exhale deeply. Back to another case, you think. _Finally_ , after what felt like an entire month of being stuck at the office. 

“Good morning! I will be there very soon, I am just about to leave my apartment, but I can be briefed along the way.” 

“Kuroki, slow down” Rossi says with a chuckle and you stop. 

“there’s no case” He says and then in a hurry, “I need to ask you a favor.” 

“Sure” you say, lingering before your front door, car keys in hand “anything” 

“Hotch’s car battery isn’t starting. I promised I would pick him up at his house and drive him back to work, but Garcia called me over for an urgent matter and I cannot leave.” 

He’s got to be kidding. He wants you to show up at Hotch’s house, and talk to him, after yesterday? Or the day before? Or literally every day since March started? 

“ _David_ , I can’t- “ 

He cuts you off, “I already called everyone else. Including Anderson and Morrison. You’re the only one who can do it.” 

You highly doubt that, though you don’t say it aloud. Can’t this man get an Uber or a cab, instead? Does he have to get a personal chariot? This has to be a fucking joke. But _he’s still your boss._

“Fine, what’s the address?” 

You slam the door of your car shut and cross the distance to his house, stomping the entire way there and stop before his front door. 

You hesitate. It’s only 7.00am and you feel tired to the bone now staring at Hotch’s front door. You have been exhausted since this whole thing started in the beginning of March – when you decided to go against his orders on the last case and put yourself at risk to save the woman the unsub had kidnapped with the intent of killing her. You had managed to save her, that was the important thing. But the unsub had still shot at you – the bullet grazing the inside of your left bicep. 

Then Hotch had yelled at you, in front of the entire team, like you’d been a small child who couldn’t stop yourself – or a disorganized and untrained agent. And you didn’t know which was worse, his reprimands or the discussion that followed later on the plane, when you told him a whole string of words that you’d never said before to a unit chief; _utterly unprofessional_. 

Then, if it that wasn’t enough, he’d never talked to you directly since then. His orders came from Emily or Rossi. Sometimes even Garcia. He’d refuse to face you or look you in the eyes. And you’d thought about it – quitting the BAU at that moment. It was almost the end of March too and you didn’t think you could continue like this anymore. 

You press the bell on the left of his front door and wait. 

He opens it right away, taking you by surprise. So, Rossi was right – he had to be waiting to be picked up. 

“What are you doing here?” he snaps, already frowning. 

You wince. That can’t be the first thing he says to you after all this time. Or this early in the morning. 

“Rossi told me you need a ride to work” 

He stares then, his eyes narrowing as he looks you up and down – as if a lie could be so easily written on your face or posture. Then he glances at your car in the driveway. 

“You didn’t have to come. I’ll get a cab” 

He says then, and you feel the sting of his words now is worse than whatever he told you on the plane. You feel hurt and embarrassed. Is it that bad that he can’t even accept a simple gesture? You truly fucked it up. 

“Hotch” you start and your voice sounds like a plead, begging him to look at you, “It’s 7am and Rossi is with Garcia on something urgent.” 

It’s unnerving and incredibly frustrating to be at the other end of this. You’d become used to Hotch’s criticism and coldness and severity when he was talking to unsubs or questioning someone. There was something there – a feeling of deep pride about being here, about working at the BAU, and having him as a unit chief. Something you’d never felt for Aria. But being on the other side of it, the one of unsubs, and having him address you in almost the same way felt wrong. It made you weak and even insecure. And you wanted it to end as soon as possible. But you’d never admit it, not when you were certain you had been right in your decision that day. 

Not when his ego seems on the way of letting him understand that. 

“Right” he says finally, after what feels like hours. “I just have to take my suitcase. I’ll be out in 5.” 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He goes back inside the house and you head to your car. Waiting at his front door feels _embarrassing_ so you opt for the safety and comfort of your vehicle. You stop tapping your fingers over the steering wheel, your body running on nervous energy, and switch the radio on. It’s an old rock channel and you lower the volume down, enough that if anything were to happen outside around the car, you’d hear it immediately. 

It’s like you’re back to your first day out of the academy, you think. A week ago, you’d made him a coffee and left it at his table, without saying who it was from, knowing secretly that he’d refuse it immediately. The week before that, you’d done the similar thing while in a meeting and he’d looked at the cup with such intensity, you’d thought he was considering if it had been poisoned. You wanted more than anything for him to grant you a look, a word, anything that caught his attention long enough and made it be redirected to you. It felt like the beginnings of your career, wanting him to be impressed by anything at all that you’d done. 

The passenger’s door opens and you hold your breath as he steps inside, and shuts it behind him. The car drops low at the weight of his body and you’re ready to feel the air change too – the usual freeze you feel in the office when you run into each other. 

You risk a glance and he’s as serious as ever. So, you start the car and drive off from his house. 

Silence ensues immediately, none of you daring to speak. With your peripheral vision you see his hands crossed over his chest, his vision straight ahead. 

“Did Garcia tell you if there’s a new case?” he asks and you try not to look at him. 

“I called her but she didn’t respond” 

You suck in a breath, and let it out shakily. So, he went back to call her, maybe even Rossi too about this arrangement. 

“No” you say then, and you feel his eyes on you. “she didn’t say anything” 

He seems to consider that for a second as his head follows yours when you check left before making a turn. His attention is fixed on the road ahead, as if he’s the one driving not you. 

It’s going to be at least a half an hour before you’re back at the office and it will feel like 3 if nobody speaks. There’s an itch at the back of your throat, urging you to say something, anything that could get him to talk to you, without Garcia, Rossi or Emily as mediators. But there’s a flush of shame surrounding you. And he feels so oddly close, not unlike the plane but even then, you’d always stick by Emily or Reid’s side than his. He smells wonderful too. It’s such a weird assessment and it shouldn’t be this surprising, that he wears cologne when his appearance is always so maintained and well curated, but you’re still caught by it. Your mind goes back to the day when he snapped at you, after being patched up by the ambulance’s first responders. It had felt like a long time for Hotch to warm up to you, but the rest of the team was welcoming. In Aria’s unit it had taken a year and some more before her entire team had started to trust you, letting you take the lead even. But Hotch’s unit, it took less than a few months. Even he, himself, had started easing up – not letting you take over per se, when he had already more experienced agents, but it was different. He’d started asking you about your wellbeing, your interests outside of work and other things that he usually asked of the others, to check up on them from time to time. It was like he’d pulled the rug from under you, when he confronted you at the ambulance, still in front of the unsub’s house in Mississippi, with police officers and agents surrounding the lot. Called you stupid, insubordinate, impulsive and impatient. And maybe you had been. The wave of guilt hits you, for the first time, while sitting beside him. The car comes to a halt as the traffic lights turn red and you lean back to your seat. 

“Hotch,” you say softly and his head snaps towards you, his eyes going from your face to your arm, still throbbing whenever you exerted yourself with tiredness. You wonder if it had crossed his mind then if you’d been fine after the shoot out before the yelling followed. After all, he’d been the first to find you then, having kicked down the side door followed by Morgan, and Prentiss. His gun had steadied on the unsub lying on the floor after you’d taken your own shot at him, piercing him on the torso and disarming him. Then, for what still feels like part of another reality, he’d gathered you into his arms, his hold a bit too forceful, bringing you fast and aggressively to your feet, as if making sure you were still solid, and that you were able to stand. He’d looked at your arm still gushing blood for a long time, his eyes scanning for any other bullet wounds, stopping at the worried look on your face, the tears prickling at your eyes, but not yet out. He'd pressed your hand to the wound, forcing you to keep yourself from bleeding out. Obeying him as if running on automatic. He’d let out a deep exhale when you’d mumbled “I’m fine”, before he’d let you go just as quickly. Behind him, Prentiss took care of the victim, and Morgan put the unsub in handcuffs. 

“I’m sorry about what I did and what I said.” you turn to look at him now, wanting to end this once and for all. You can’t bear it anymore, the mile-high distance that spans between the two of you. Or him not speaking to you in the office for longer than necessary. Most of all, as you meet his brown eyes, for what feels like the first time in forever, you don’t think you can stand him not looking at you anymore. 

“I was incredibly irresponsible and I-” his face is still stern but you don’t get discouraged, you push ahead, “I do not make a habit of going against the orders of my superiors.” He turns to stare ahead, and it’s not enough of an excuse, you think. 

“I was hasty and headstrong.” you say and you turn your attention to the traffic lights, still glowing red. 

“I didn’t think before acting and I didn’t wait for reinforcements” you’re simply stating facts now and he knows it too. The events of that day still linger, resurfacing from time to time at night when you can’t sleep. The man, a late 20 years older, was a homophobic sadist, who’d taken upon himself to eliminate any woman who rejected him – using them as surrogates for his own partner who’d came out after 5 years of marriage to him. You’d realized that he’d found her then – the woman who divorced him, and had called it on the comms, your car trailing behind his. And when he entered his house, the woman struggling under his arms to break free, you knew that he wouldn’t waste time with it. So, you’d barged in, without thinking, without a vest on, and he’d shot you as soon as you’d stepped inside. It wasn’t the most violent of acts – you'd been shot before, in the vest, but an inch closer to the right and he could have struck your chest. You’d witnessed active shootings too. Maybe that’s why that day still appeared in your dreams. It’d take many forms – you in a robbery shoot out with Revi, no vests to keep you safe; then you at a recent confrontation with the BAU, two hunters gone from animals to humans, still no vest as you shot at them with Morgan at your side. 

“But if I hadn’t made it inside, you know it too-” you pause and look at his side profile, “that woman, would be dead. I couldn’t let that happen. Not when I am far too familiar with that kind of violence.” 

That gets his attention. 

“Far too many times I’ve been that woman. Any of them that rejected him. And I’ve met that exact man” you say, and your voice is tinged with incredible sadness but regret too. 

“I couldn’t stop, and you know it too that had the reinforcements arrived on time; I would have still been the first inside.” 

His eyes seem to relent on their harshness but you’re not yet done. 

“I am not sorry about going in and not waiting” your voice steady and strong, “I am only sorry about what I said to you on the plane” 

He blinks and you see he’s shocked that you choose to be this forthcoming. 

“You’re not any of those horrible things I said to you” - _untrustful_ _towards women, egoistical, callous, emotionless, and a bully_. “I was just angry at being shot and at being wrong” 

He regards you with a still patience. 

“I’m not a trainee, Hotch” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I stopped being one 5 years and 7 months ago, when I graduated from the academy. I am an agent. I did my time at Aria’s and any other field office where I trained before joining her unit.” 

You grip the steering wheel and turn to eye the traffic light – still on that unrelenting red. As if to spite you specifically. 

“I do not make mistakes like that and I don’t let my emotions get the best of me. I never did that in my entire career until now” you huff out, “But I won’t have you treat me like a trainee or like a child. I deserve your trust and respect just like any of your other agents” 

The light starts blinking and when it’s green you start the car again. His eyes still linger on your figure, on your face, and you blink hard, forcing yourself not to cry, not here, not in front of him. You’d never been one to cry either way but the car has gotten smaller. He seems closer, like his silent presence grew more in the span of your talk. 

“At least,” you speak and your tone is still emotional, “before my mistake in Mississippi.” 

You spend the rest of the drive, in silence and you try not to overthink your entire monologue so you pay attention only to the radio and the soft rumbling of the car as it takes you both to Quantico. 

You turn off the ignition upon parking and he doesn’t make a move to get out, so you don’t either. You both wait inside the underground parking lot of the building still empty at the early hour, and the harsh fluorescent lights ahead making the entire space dim and muddled. Like you’re stuck in an indefinite time and location. 

“I am sorry too” he says and your heart is in your throat.

He remembers it too - driving with Prentiss and Morgan in the car with him, Reid and Dave in the other. All in the conference call as you announced the whereabouts of the unsub. He'd ordered you to stand by, voice stormy with the force of it. But you hanged up, quick. He'd heard Dave then state the obvious.

"She's not going to wait, Aaron" and it had hit him like a ton of bricks. He should have realized it earlier. Ever since you and Reid had made the connection that the women had all been surrogates. And he speeds up, driving worse than Morgan. He felt their gazes on him, as they struggled to not jerk sideways as they moved with the car. Then he halted, stopping the car in front of yours. Driver's door still lingering open. His body moved on its own. He sprinted to the house, gun drawn. Morgan and Prentiss following close. Loud police sirens right behind them. And the rest was history. 

You glance back at him – his eyebrows not furrowed anymore, his face neutral, but his eyes pierce yours in a familiar way. He holds your gaze as he continues. 

“I shouldn’t have criticized you in front of the police unit, or the team” his arms are uncrossed, his entire body turned to you demanding your complete attention. 

“It shows us at a bad light, and misrepresents the BAU” 

“Right” you say and there’s disappointment in your features, and he notes it too. Your hands let go of the steering wheel, dropping at your lap, fumbling for something else to do. Without the radio on and the car moving, this feels unbearable. Having him stare at you with that look in his eyes that you can’t yet decipher, and his proximity, make you feel warm and sensitive. The car smells too much like him now, and you need to get out, like you need fresh air in your lungs. Yet you stop, not wanting to do it either. His focus on you is earnest, and you don’t want it to end. 

“And I did treat you like a trainee then but never before” he says and you know it to be true, deep inside you, past the guilt that still resurfaces at you like a crushing wave. 

“Did it make you feel better?” he asks then, “saving that woman?” 

You think back to that day, the sheer desperation that had clawed at your insides to bolt yourself out of the car once reaching the unsub’s house, impossible to wait for any backup. Then having shot him in front of the woman. Saving her was a good thing. But it hadn’t done anything to help you feel better. It was worse. 

“No,” you say, “I still feel like shit. A surrogate doesn’t help, you know. Only serial killers feel that way.” 

His expression is the same. He must have deduced it by now, from your first mention of the violence, the way you had gripped at the steering wheel the entire way here, to the way you can’t seem to rest. He doesn’t know the details of the event, but he can almost read it in your eyes. He’s good at his job, by default. 

“I was attacked on my way home from school” you say, “I was with my girlfriend at the time. It was just one guy, and we should have been able to flee, or at least save each other. Two against one.” your voice doesn’t sound like it’s yours – too distant, too foreign, the events of that day still embroidered in your memory. 

“He beat me to a pulp, in front of her. She was prettier than me-” you show him a bitter smile, that is just teeth, not reaching your eyes, “so I didn’t deserve her. I was stealing all the good ones from men.” you recite back the words that had been said to you. 

“I was bloody, and swollen for months. Just because he’d heard me make a comment about her hair. The both of us were too afraid, even then to make public displays of affection” You look down at your hands, unable to stop the shaking. “I still am sometimes, and I’m bigger, stronger than I was. But it’s a reflex.” 

Hotch’s eyes are soft, but his face is in that same steeliness he dons in the field, when an injustice is occurring. 

“I was reckless, I know. But I won’t let it happen again. I’ve made that promise to myself.” 

He wants to reach out to you. There’s a shift when he moves, and for a second it looks like he might grab a hold of both of your hands over your lap. He restrains himself from doing so. 

“I’m sorry.” he says and you nod slowly. 

“You’re no use to _me_ dead” he says then with the same boldness you’d started in the beginning. “To any of us” 

“But I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t tell you I’d have done the same thing had I been in your shoes” 

His eyebrows flicker up and you tempt a smile at his confession. The ground beneath you still feels like it can crumble. 

His hand goes up, and you watch it as if it’s in slow motion. His fingers wrap lightly around your right arm, above your elbow and below your bicep, and he gives a light squeeze to the exposed patch of your skin, his thumb leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. Heat seeps through, marking you, and he lets go just as fast as it happened. You don’t want it to show – the effect he leaves on you – so you force yourself to talk. 

“So, the team is not disowning me yet?” you ask with a tease, and he shakes his head. 

“Not yet” he repeats, stifling a smile. 

“Good” you say and there’s a knowing look in his eyes, and his presence doesn’t feel like too much anymore. It’s become familiar, pleasant even through your confession, and you don’t mind anymore the tight space around you both. He looks to feel the same way, his palms are straight over the thighs of his suit pants, yet his posture is more relaxed. His curious eyes go to the hanged decorations of your rearview mirror – two glass herons, an aromatizer for the car, and a golden locket that only you know the content of. He meets your eyes again, this time the dimples at the sides of his face are showing, and it feels like it was a lifetime ago that you hadn’t spoken to one another this directly. 

“Did you take your car to the shop?” you ask, trying to break the ice again. There’s still something unsaid. That the patch up to this whole situation will take a bit longer but it won’t be as difficult and unimaginable as before. After all, if the silent treatment had continued this week too, it would have made it into a full month. 

“Not yet” he says, “I’m going to call a mechanic at the end of the day” 

You nod at that, and you want to ask more, how he’s faring after the Mississippi case, how he’s been this entire month, even how Jack is but his phone flickers on with a new text. 

“Or not” he says and waits. Your phone illuminates too with the new text. The same message as his, you imagine. 

_Garcia: New case alert! Hurry up birdie._

Maybe not the exact same content, but you smile as you open the door. 

“If you need another ride-” but you don’t finish the sentence. 

Hotch nods at you, smiling, already out of the car. You both start to the elevators. That easy familiarity with him is back, tinted with something else not yet describable. 

When you step out the elevator, Rossi stands in the hall, his hands in his pockets, eyes peering from you to Hotch. 

“Morning, how was the ride?” He asks, with a small smile. 

“Good” you reply, but Hotch ignores it. 

“Is everyone in yet?” he asks instead and Rossi shakes his head no. 

He trails behind as you both walk towards the bullpen. 

“Can you call in Garcia?” Hotch turns to you, a hand coming to rest briefly between your shoulder blades to get your attention. You try not to let it show – your sudden surprise at the simple turn of his head addressing you, or his hand on your back, and you mumble out an incoherent yes. Then, feeling Rossi’s eyes on you, you try again. 

“Of course” 

“Thanks” he says, letting go. You pause in front of the entrance of the bullpen, as Hotch continues ahead. 

Rossi pauses for a minute to grant you a grin. 

“ _Grazie al cielo_ ” he says under his breath. Before you can respond – ask him if that had been his plan all along, to try to mend the relationship between you and Hotch – he leaves. He follows Hotch into his office, that same grin never leaving his face even as he closes the door behind. 

“Of course,” you let out to nobody in particular. Rossi had P _arent Trap-_ _ed_ the both of you, and with success too. 


	6. Out of the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Emily Prentiss dies, Hotch is tasked with the job of assessing his team, making sure they're doing well, and that includes you too.  
> Does the assessment change things?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW ? idk if i should but better safe: mention of Emily Prentiss's fake death (before they knew it was fake)

“I thought only the team had to be assessed” you start, making yourself as comfortable as you can in the stiff leather chair of Hotch’s office. You had never been here before to sit for longer than 10 minutes. Hotch is sitting across from you, his forms in hand, legs crossed and head low looking at the notes. You feel a bit like you are taking a session with your therapist. 

“Yes, and as far as I recall you are a part of that team”, he says quite matter-of-factly, without looking back up. 

“I’m not affected” you say just as fast, and you bite your lip. It came out meaner than you had expected it too. “As much as them, I mean”. Hotch looks at you for what you think is a split second but his face remains stoic. 

And you’d noticed it too, the way each of them was broken in different ways, after Emily Prentiss had died before even getting to the emergency room in time for them to try and resuscitate her. 

_-_

_“Penelope?” you call again, this time dropping a hand over her shoulder. She jumps up, startled and finally tears her eyes off Emily Prentiss’ photo in the wall of people to remember. She’d been doing that for what feels like forever now. It is a bit later in the day, almost lunch time. Everyone has left the offices to eat out. Penelope, with big glasses and even bigger blonde hair, always donning loud colorful dresses that at times mismatched who always smiled and joked around even in the hardest of times, was now taciturn – a sight that for you was too strange to digest._

_So, you take up baking in response._

_“Hey?” she approaches your desk the next day, the only one in the office at this hour, apart from Hotch already barricaded in his since 7.30am._

_“Morning” you reply and she’s hesitant, nearing your table. She’s got a large bouquet of daisies in hand, all in a vase._

_“Um, sorry to bother – did you happen to see from whose they were. They were just at my desk. No note”_

_And it’s stupid how you didn’t think of at least leaving a note. You are supposed to notice suspicious things as a job, for god’s sake._

_“Yeah, from me”_

_Her eyes go wide, still surprised._

_“What?”_

_You stand up, making your way to the printer._

_“I have a big garden full of flowers and I don’t know what to do with them. If I don’t give them away, they’d wither” you lie right to her face. You still have the receipt from the flower shop located along your Wednesday’s jogging route in your car. That still continues on for as long as you continue jogging._

_“Oh, okay. They’re so beautiful. Thank you”_

_She reaches to squeeze your hand, relief on her face. And walks back into her office._

_Then when your baking had gotten relatively better, you’d started talking to her about the many recipes. “_

_Because I need another human being to tell me if they suck” you say to her, leaving a set of cinnamon cookies at her desk. “So, I can stop making them”._

_Then one batch, lead to Mondays becoming cookie days. And when you headed out into the field and she made a comment over cookies, you’d said it was Garcia being Garcia, the same way she called Morgan “chocolate thunder” and nobody batted an eye._

\- 

“Is that denial?” Hotch says then, looking up, referring to the stages of grief. 

You almost huff but you restrain yourself. Because he can read you like an open book. 

\- 

_“Morgan!” you yell out, watching as the unsub runs out from the back doors as soon as you approach his house. You sprint immediately after him, Derek on your left. He reaches him first, as you predicted he would._

_Derek had been there, chasing after Emily, shaking with frustration and anger that she hadn’t told them the source of her fears – the man chasing after her with murder as his goal. He’d been there clinging unto Emily’s hands, the stick of wood piercing her side, blood over his hands and shirt, soaking through. He’d whispered her to hang on, to not give up just yet because the ambulance was on its way. You had never stopped thinking about it, of what you would have done at his place, how you would have felt. But you were relieved that at least that by her side in the end had been a close friend, more than a familiar face. Someone you knew she cherished, and had told you so explicitly._

_“Fuck, you son of a b-”_

_The unsub throws a wine glass at your face, and it almost hits you square up._

_“You did not just do that” Derek spits out at him, and when the unsub swings a punch, it’s too late. Derek’s fist hitting him first. His knife and gun knocked out from him._

_Offering Derek comfort was different. You couldn’t make a show out of it – it wasn’t you and it wasn’t him. He was silent in his grief. But you sensed the reek of guilt leaking out of him. So, when the shifts changed to the old rhythms of you shadowing anyone who was free and the possibility rose – you’d let him catch the unsubs, or save the victims. A way for him to at least feel a semblance of hope, and dissipate any insecurity over his abilities as an agent – left over by not being able to catch Emily’s kidnapper on time. At least you hoped it helped._

\- 

“How are you dealing with the loss?” he asks, knowing you won’t answer his first question. 

You want to say you’re doing okay, because you are, _really_ , but you also couldn’t lie and say that even with your experience, losing Emily felt different. Not because she was another partner. Not because she had been a mentor. 

“I know you admired her” he says, and you really should know by now that _nothing_ escapes him. Obviously, he’d been the one to call the shots, and would appoint you to retracing crime scenes or filtering out interviews with her. He was the unit chief – that was literally in his job description. 

“Obviously”, you admit then. “She helped me settle in with the team”, you say, “and taught me so much”. 

Hotch nods, scribbles something down that even if you were Reid, you wouldn’t be able to decipher. 

\- 

_Spencer Reid, you sigh, and you pained remembering how shattered he’d been those first months after Emily. You knew his family history, knew his hardships, all fed to you by Penelope who worried about him too. Everyone in the team did. He was to be sheltered, at all times. And then, when Emily passed away, you could understand why. He became closed off, and there weren’t enough quips or random facts_ _spawn_ _at 100 meters an hour like there had been before. He seemed to think a bit too long on what he had to say before he said it now – his mind putting up walls. His heart broken over losing a friend._

_“How’s your day?” you ask, nearing the coffee station of the office. Spencer had been staring at the empty cup of coffee before him for at least 10 minutes. You’d seen it from your desk, missing his quiet presence as you did paperwork._

_“Hmm?” he turns to you, and his gaze is empty. Not really there._

_“How’s your day?” you repeat, and you know he doesn’t really have an answer to that. Not one that is honest at least._

_“Fine” he replies, because he can’t be impolite to you. “I’m almost finished with the Renovo report” he says remembering you’d asked for it. Three days ago._

_He doesn’t make a move to press the button on the coffee machine. And your mind works fast._

_“I read yesterday that a woman, Melitta Bentz in 1908 invented the coffee maker. She created the first drip coffee maker using a filter she made out of blotting paper. Thanks to her, right?”_

_You’d struggled quite a lot trying to think of what grief looked like for Spencer. It was something like this – isolation. And you couldn’t really sleep at night, not when you knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything for a while._

_“Actually-” his voice is tiny, unbear_ _ably soft, and you shift closer to hear him, “_ _The history of the coffee maker, like many inventions, began long ago. The Turks were known to brew coffee way back in 575 A.D. and the history of the coffee maker really begins there. Much of the history of the coffee maker has been lost to the ages, so no one really knows much about the history of the coffee maker from the time of the Turks to 1818, when the first coffee percolator was created.”_

_In the plane, in the flights to whatever police department requested the team’s assistance, you’d insist on listening to his monologues on philosophy and physics books – any books, really, when the others would push them aside. At work, you’d ask him more questions, try to trigger any ideas that his brilliant mind would then put together to solve a case. This made the two of you start working better together too. Bouncing questions off of one another. Unlocking a chemistry, you hadn’t known was there when discussing a profile’s upbringing or geographical profile._

\- 

“So, at what stage are you, then?” Hotch asks. 

“I’d like to think of myself as being at acceptance” you say then, a bit more confident,

“Sir” you pepper in there, trying to make yourself sound more convincing. 

\- 

_David Rossi is the_ easiest _, easy-going man in the world. That’s what had impressed you since day one. Maybe it was his friendly face, or the easiness to which he talked to you with, as a colleague, even though there was a gap of at least 20 years of experience. Or maybe even the familiarity you felt with him, from the start. Penelope and Emily had been your friends before the others had opened up to you. But David Rossi knew all your culinary secrets. And you knew his._

  
_“Look at this” you walk into his office without knocking. He’s staring at an empty spot on the wall before his desk, and returns the focus to you._

_You sit down on the chair before his desk, and drop a letter before him._

_“My friend Amelia told me that she got_ tartufo _shipped over last night, and robiola cheese too. What do you say about a risotto with robiola and truffles? Hm?”_

_Talking to him about cooking recipes, Italy, and the common thread of distant relatives originating from the same territory was the easiest. With Emily gone, asking him questions at all made him ready to talk and offer any remembrance or nostalgia he felt, and you’d return it with kind-hearted and genuine interest._

\- 

“I know everyone must have asked you already, sir” you start, “but isn’t Strauss supposed to give these assessments? I’m fairly new too. I thought she would have insisted on leading them.” 

Hotch nods, confirming your assumptions, yet he still looks wary. 

“She did insist I do not leave you out of the team assessment” he says simply, and watches your reaction. You try not to let it get to you, but your hands clasp together on your lap out of habit, only to give yourself something to do. You know he can tell. 

So, there it is. He was asked to do this evaluation on you. Not that he felt you were part of the team, or anything. You lower your gaze to your hands. 

What were you thinking really? That Hotch would comfort you, _personally_? Give you some words of comfort, reassurance before continuing his work? He had 4 other agents that were in the same state. 

“I know it must be hard on you as well”, his voice lacks the usual tone of strictness of the field, and his eyes convey sympathy. 

You are the youngest out of them, of course. And you admired Emily Prentiss, almost as soon as you'd met her. Apart from Penelope, she was the only girl in the team, so you latched into her right away. 

\- 

_You didn’t know Jennifer_ _Jareau_ _, otherwise known JJ, but you might as well have, from what the team said about her. She had been reassigned somewhere else, and you’d first met her on Emily’s case. She was blonde and fierce. That was all you could remember_ _at first glance._ _Yet you knew that her and Emily were best of friends._

_“Have you seen Hotch?” she asks one day, seeing you in the hall._

_“He’s in a meeting with Strauss” you reply and study her. She’s quick to move and familiar to the bullpen. “And Penelope?” her expressions though seem frantic. Her eyes scanning the entire space. Eyes trying not to linger on Emily’s empty desk._

_“I think, she’s out as well.”_

_Her frustration gets to her then, as she bites at her thumb nail._

_“Can I help?” you offer then._

_“Yeah, I actually need to print some documents. Stuff Hotch needs to sign. Can I use your computer?”_

_And you let her, obviously. Whenever she does pass by, that’s what_ _you_ _do._

_Until you start leaving on instinct, said forms or reports already printed, and pens and papers at the common table - the place where you knew she and Hotch would go to discuss and sign them – so she wouldn’t lose time in the bullpen, having to remember how she’d left her team behind, and then unable to help her._

\- 

“I’ve noticed what you’ve been doing for the team”, he says softly, waiting for you to understand. 

You can’t help but be surprised. You didn’t think anyone would have. You weren’t doing it as a sort of performance, or a way to get in anyone’s good graces, or even out of pity. And you were certainly not doing it to impress your boss, now sitting across from you, his folder no longer on his lap. 

“I feel guilty”, you say, your voice breaking a bit. “Admittedly not as much as Derek” you smooth down the dress with your palms over your lap, trying not to seem too shaky. “I should have noticed something was up with her, and that she was holding back. I should have said something to you, sir”. 

_Emily had been dismissive to you, in what you now understood coincides to the time_ _Ian Doyle_ _reappeared in her life. She was all too much too reserved than before, and ignoring you – having gone back to her old rhythm with_ _Derek_ _instead_ _._ _Of course, you were also hurt, feeling like you had messed up somewhere. But you were a professional in the field._ _You didn’t allow yourself to obsess over needless things._

“I don’t intend to make that same mistake again, sir” 

\- 

_Unit Chief Agent_ _Hotchner_ _, who the squad all called Hotch, was the toughest nut to crack. You didn’t know much about him or his personal life apart from him having a son, but you knew he now was grieving twice as much as the others. He’d lost his wife only a year ago. A loss so foreign to you, that you couldn’t comprehend, but a loss nonetheless familiar._

_“Detective Roman” he says, stopping before the old man. Finally finding the time to address his questions and reluctancy in working with the BAU, even though they’d been here, at his precinct since morning._

_“You said you had some questions. I apologize I couldn’t answer them sooner-”_

_The man who’d mocked him and Reid just an hour ago, face angry at the both of them, now smiled at him._

_“It’s okay, Agent Hotchner. I had all my questions answered earlier. I have to apologize for my behavior in front of your team. I didn’t comprehend before what your specializations were. I’d appreciate your consultancy in the future, so I thank you again”_

_Hotch is shocked, as he watches the man extend a hand and he_ _shakes_ _it, still struck._

_“Of course, no problem” he answers._

_How did someone change so quickly?_

_“Who answered your questions?” he calls then, and the detective smiles._

_“Your new agent.” he says, and he leaves._

_You’d started meeting or steering local PD towards you, when you deemed yourself capable enough to do so, in certain situations, so he wouldn’t be flooded by disturbances or cynicism over the team’s skills. You would do it graciously as well, not angering any of them, without severing any relations between the PD and the FBI._

_-_

But you should have known – should have predicted that if anyone could be as worried as you over the team, it was him. He had been “profiling” the rest of them just like you. And that includes you too. 

“I’m grateful for what you’re doing for the team” 

He lets the last word hang in the air, signifying that he’s noticed the management with the local police departments as well. 

“But you should allow yourself to grieve as well.” 

“I am” you say but your voice isn’t as steady as you hope. 

“I’m not asking you to stop caring about the people around you” his eyes are soft as he says it. 

“But if you ever feel the need to share with someone, or even talk, I am here” 

The offer is nice, and it’s kind of him to do so, but you can’t help but wonder where does he go. Who does he talk to when he needs it?” 

“Is that part of the procedure?” you ask. You’d had a similar assessment not long ago, but your former team’s psychologist hadn’t been so easygoing. Or stern –looking. 

Hotch shakes his head slowly. 

“Not really.” 

You breathe in, and as you do, he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“But I don’t want you to carry the burden alone” 

“They’re not a burden to me” you reply just as fast. 

His eyes trail your features, reading your innate desire to make sure your _friends_ were well, and to be their support. 

“I know.” his posture stays sharp. “But sometimes we forget to take care of ourselves in the process of doing so for others” 

Your lips twitch downwards. That’s rich coming from him. He’s been the most withdrawn out of everyone since Emily. 

“I will do it on one condition” 

He tilts his head to the side, facial expression not changing. 

“I will do it, if you do it” 

You mimic his posture, arms crossed before your front, spine straight. He looks pensive. So, you reiterate. 

“I will talk if you talk” 

That’s a childish thing to say but he seems to consider it for a split second. 

Then, 

“Okay. I will abide by what I recommend” 

It’s unexpected for him to agree so quickly, but you take it. 

“Good” 

\---

The day of the assessment had brought on a change. It was like the flip of a switch the way everything started to shift. 

You arrive one morning at the office at 8am, 30 minutes after your unit chief, Agent Hotchner. He was the first in and the last out, a pure workaholic if you ever knew one. But he never resurges from his office until the entire team had arrived. Now, as you pass through the hall, your eyes glancing at Emily Prentiss’ picture hanged in the wall of remembrance amongst others, you see his silhouette standing at your desk before he sees you. You cross the threshold and enter the BAU, looking out at the empty desks of the bullpen – an open plan office with 7-8 desks, and stairs leading up to his office standing high enough that he could look down at all of you at any moment. 

“Good morning, sir” you say tentatively, unsure why you also feel a bit taken aback by his presence. 

He turns to you, his face unreadable. 

“We have a case”, he says and you look around. He has folders in his hands, that you know he will then place before anyone’s seats at the round table of the conference room. And you note that there must be something wrong. 

“ _Buongiorno_ , Kuroki”, David Rossi’s voice calls out from the kitchen on the opposite side of the entrance of the office. “Coffee?” he calls out raising his hands, showing two cups of coffee. And sure, enough the smell of it floods you. 

“No, thank you” you say, not really paying attention. You are busy making up scenarios of what this case is. Soon enough, Rossi joins the two of you, leaving a cup of coffee before Hotch, and for himself. He takes a seat at the desk on your right, Reid’s. 

‘Where, sir?” you ask, knowing that the case had to be at least somewhere close to your hometown thus the warning before the others’ arrival. You sit at your desk, and now Hotch stands in front of you, not handing you the folder yet. 

“In Indiana”, he doesn’t make a move, waits. 

“Where in Indiana?” you ask, slinging the bag from over your shoulders underneath the table. “In Columbus?” where you were born, but not stayed at beyond your high school years. 

“I want you to read this”, and he doesn’t say it but it’s inferred, _before the others arrive_. You take the folder he offers and you open it over your desk. Obviously, you are not Reid, so it doesn’t take you less than a minute, but you try to skim as fast as you can. It’s a kidnapping case of boys between the ages of 10 and 13, a recent one been abducted just this morning at 5am. 

“We want your unfiltered opinion”, Rossi says while you read, “your impressions before Reid starts chattering and leaves you unable to speak out or interject with your original deduction. Or Morgan.” 

You’re confused then, because if there was one thing, you’d understood from your year working at the BAU was that this was a team – conducted itself as a team. Nobody interjects anybody, let alone not allow them to speak out. You helped one another, until the profile was well-rounded and complete, each making a contribution which made you all come to the same conclusion. 

“We are a team, sir” you look at Hotch as you say so, “I don’t think Dr. Reid is a hindrance to my work in the field. Neither is Agent Morgan, or Agent Rossi”, the latter leans back at Reid’s seat, arms crossed, “or even you, sir”. You all complete each other. 

“However, I find it odd that the family members were around when the kids were abducted.” 

Hotch and Rossi exchange a look, the former nods, and Rossi takes it as a cue to stand up and leave you. You stand there, waiting for this mysteriousness to end. 

“We are one profiler short”, Hotch says and his face is rid of its usual flair of seriousness, eyebrows unfrowned, “Strauss is looking for replacements for Prentiss, and I agree with her that we need one, so we do not fall behind” 

You want to interject, but you don’t allow yourself to complete his line of thought. 

“The team is still adjusting and they need a semblance of steadiness, of regularity”, he raises his eyebrows, and you know he counts himself in this equation too. 

“I want to offer you a full-time job as a profiler, an official part of the team” 

Your voice responds before your mind has processed the new information. 

“I decline, sir”, and Hotch waits for what is to come, “I do not want to alienate my colleagues, not like this -” not the newbie being a replacement to the force of nature that was Emily Prentiss, and certainly not because of the insecurities you’d felt when you’d first started. “I am learning more from the team in my current position”, you confess, “from their conduction in the field and elsewhere.” 

Hotch huffs, yet it’s not directed at you. 

“Not as her replacement. Strauss won’t give me that much freedom to decide the ins and outs of my own team.” he says through his teeth. “But at least I get to make a decision on you getting out of the learning period.” 

So, he’s offering you another position, that as a promotion to your existing one. 

“So, the team knows you’re indispensable too.” 

And you don’t wait to accept, quite happily so. 

“I’d be extremely honored, sir” you say with a smile that you cannot contain, standing up mimicking his posture. 

“Thank God” Rossi says coming out of the shadows, his smile ear to ear. 

Hotch leaves the contract papers before you to sign, and you take them hurriedly, taking the time to read through every sentence. You skip some, the excitement getting the best of you as you sign in the empty spots dictated for your signature. Hotch disappears to the kitchen, leaving you and Rossi alone, who sits back down beside you. 

You’re half listening to Rossi make small jokes. Of how nervous Hotch had become, or how they’d discussed behind closed doors about Strauss and about your position with the team, like a couple having an affair. And you laugh, feeling warm and welcomed, now listening in to their banter from their long history of working together years before Gideon – the unit chief that had left Hotch his position. 

A cup of steaming coffee is left before you – Hotch's hand making you look up. It’s unwarranted but you’re more than grateful, having now signed everything. He takes the cup Rossi had left for him and leans on Morgan’s desk, raising his cup. You pick up yours and clink it to theirs. 

“We celebrate properly once we solve this case” Hotch says holding your gaze. You nod once, but he doesn’t look away. There’s an unknown feeling rising from deep within your belly, but you chuck it up to the validation two of the most experienced profilers give you. 

“Won’t help from keeping the profilers from deducing the good news”, Rossi says and stands.

And there is everyone pouring through the doors, slowly joining. Reid and Morgan and then Garcia, and to your (concealed) relief they all rejoice at your news. Hotch was right – they are more than happy to have you become officially theirs. 

\-- 

The team partnerships on the field start to change too. If before you had been shadowing whoever wasn’t partnered, now you were rigorously following Hotch and Rossi behind. You’d listen to them negotiate with the police and unsubs in kidnappings or high-risk scenarios. You would aid Hotch in whatever questionings he conducted, urging you also to participate. You’d eased into their harmonic camaraderie, laughing at whatever secret about Hotch, David Rossi would give you on the car rides after returning triumphant after a case. And in intense situations, they would let you carry out important responsibilities, such as calling Garcia to get an address, or throwing out alternatives like the rest for an action plan that Hotch would have then to decide upon. 

“How’s coaching going?” Rossi asks from the passenger’s seat, looking at Hotch in the driver’s. “Did you win the last match?” 

Hotch lets out a small smile then, that you see reflected at the rearview mirror. You are sitting in the back, listening in, after returning from investigating the living quarters of an unsub. 

“We did yes. Not that we keep count of goals or anything”, Hotch smiles, sounding triumphant. 

You’d witnessed quite a few of them – Hotch's smiles, Hotch’s happy tone of voice, Hotch’s sarcasm and jokes. 

In the beginning, whenever the two of them would talk in the front, you’d felt like you were invading their privacy – a thought now so ridiculous to you. Hotch wasn’t scary or strict or anything else the others at the academy or at the FBI had said. He’d go out of his way to ask you how you were doing, remembering the smallest of details from your life. He’d do it with anyone in his team. There was a certain easy familiarity between all of them. His intensity might have made him seem tough, emotionless, unfazed, but he was simply committed to the job. 

“You missed the last game?” You ask Rossi, who’d taken up to be the assistant coach position in Jack's soccer team. 

Rossi waves a hand away, like swatting a fly, “I was hungover last Sunday”, he says and Hotch laughs at that. 

You raise an eyebrow, “So...” you say urging him to continue, knowing Rossi had to have been out on a date. 

“I apologized once” he says to Hotch and it’s your turn to laugh.

Hotch catches your eyes in the rearview mirror. Concealing his own laugh from Rossi, but revealing it to you.

“Hope it was worth it, at least” you say.

The car comes to a halt then, having reached the police department.

You flung the door open as Rossi says, “No comment”. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all so ofc i changed the time frame - JJ will join! but a bit later! and Hotch doesnt leave his team behind until I say so. (will still happen soon)


	7. Things you shouldn't do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partnerships in the field change, and you and Hotch settle into an easy friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter because I am starved for affection and hopefully this fixes it.  
> Quick and cute camaraderie moment! :)

“Plans for the weekend?” David Rossi asks as the three of you approach the SUV, and you still don’t tear your eyes away from Morgan shoving the unsub, cuffs at the hands behind his back, in the police car. He nods at you all, and Hotch nods back. 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding, since the team and the SWAT had rushed into this half-torn two-stories house at a dead-end street in Ohio. The women kidnapped had been all fine, luckily. And luck didn’t really run too often in your line of work. Which makes you happy for the first time in 2 months now, since all the recent cases had been not as successful. Which prompts Rossi’s question. The SWAT team and their van leaves second, after the police car with the unsub is followed by Morgan and Reid in an SUV of theirs. 

“Feels like I want to take out Garcia for a lobster dinner at La Cambre and buy her the most expensive wine on the menu”, you joke, as you open the door and sit on the back of the car. 

Rossi chuckles at that and it garners a tight-lipped smile out of Hotch too. 

“If she’s free this last minute, obviously”, you say as you hook the seatbelt on. 

Hotch turns the ignition on. 

“She really does deserve it.” Rossi admits. 

This unsub, oh man, had been all over the map and was about to devolve quick, before any of you had anticipated him to do so. Yet Garcia had found an almost invisible trail on the videos of the women he’d kidnapped, and that was just after her 11th recheck of the files. She was meticulous. You owed this success entirely to her, as she’d forward an address just as fast. All of you had then torn open the door of his house, closed the exits and retrieved the girls, alive and well. 

“You, Rossi?” 

You catch his reflection on the sideview mirror, as Hotch turns the SUV to follow the line of police cars going back to the precinct. 

“I have a live music show to attend” he says, smiling, dimples on his face. 

“Ooh,” you coo raising your eyebrows, knowing exactly which music show he’s referring to. You weren’t about to admit it though that your friend Amelia had told you about her event at the jazz club “La Blue Rose” and you’d urged her to invite Rossi out first. 

“Yes, yes. I’m halfway into convincing Hotch here to come with.” he turns to look at his friend and Hotch shakes his head. 

“Dave-” 

“I’m waiting for what excuse you are going to offer me this time”, he says and crosses his arms. 

They do seem like an old married couple, you think, and smile to yourself. 

“It’s not an excuse, Dave.” 

You look out your window, at the line of houses passing by fast as the car drives through the suburbs. 

“It is if it’s half-assed" 

“Dave, I really don’t want to discuss this now” 

The voice of your mother somehow makes its way into your head, saying how nice it would be to live somewhere quiet, in a neighborhood where the neighbors are your family. The kids free to roam around, not in danger of incoming traffic or pollution. Then how come none of the families around here had noticed their neighbor abducting 20 years old college girls? You try not to think of that, but of the road ahead, of going back and maybe spending a day or two just sleeping it off. But you're trapped again by your thoughts, now filled with memories of Revi. You feel watched, all of the sudden, and you catch Hotch’s gaze in the rearview mirror. 

“Kuroki?” Rossi asks again and you hadn’t heard him call out to you the first time. 

“Yes, sorry. I will just sleep in.” you answer then, knowing the topic of weekend plans is still on. 

“No clubs or pubs or raves, as you youngsters do?” Rossi asks, and you know he’s half-joking. His tone of voice, quite amused. 

You let out a sigh, “That’s never been my crowd, even when I was in college”. 

“Maybe it should be”, he says, “might do you some good to see other people” 

This all sounds too ridiculous and you can’t help laughing. “Are you implying something?” 

“Nothing”, he shrugs, feigning innocence, “just that it’s too early for you to become like us”, he says pointing at himself and Hotch, who still shakes his head. They’re not even that old. Hotch is only 10 years your senior, and Rossi ten years his. Yet Rossi always talks like an old man. You aren’t about to argue with him though, not when he’s in a talkative mood. 

“I should be saying that. I’m not the one planning to pull an all-nighter at a club.” 

Hotch catches your eyes again in the mirror, an eyebrow shooting up. He looks worried about you - your defensive tone of voice over a simple remark. 

“He didn’t tell you about that, did he, Hotch?” 

Rossi turns sharply to look at you, like you just ruined his plans, but Hotch is already at his throat with questions. 

“It’s an all-nighter? Dave? Really?” 

And the rest of the drive is passed with arguments, your mind dozing off to other territories, leaving them to bicker about their weekend plans in private. 

\-- 

The flight back made the entire team fall asleep, everyone passed out and unmoving, since you’d passed tirelessly searching for the unsub these last 3 days. 

Hotch rests a hand on the right of your shoulder above your seat to alert you of his presence, hand brushing then against your shoulder lightly, before he sits down across from you. You’d heard his muffled voice while speaking on the phone, low enough as to not wake anyone, but you knew that had to be just a quick chat either with his son Jack, or Jessica. 

“Can’t sleep?” you ask before he does, placing a bookmark in the book in front of you before closing it. You’d always brought fictional books to take the mind off during flights but after a strenuous day with your brain too fizzled to concentrate, you found that even fiction couldn’t hold your attention span. Then Reid had said something about the human brain still being capable of expanding, of keeping it trained. So, you’d turned to technical books, anything that could help a case, and then foreign language books. You’d started with French, then Italian, and even switched speaking to your mother in her native Japanese whenever you two spoke on the phone. Then your last attempt was German, having done just one class abroad in Berlin while in your freshman year of college. All this because Spencer Reid told you a small little fact. (And maybe Emily with all her languages had her own influence on you too – but you don’t want to cross that bridge now.) You push the German dictionary to the table in between you and Hotch and leave it there, your attention now focused solely on him. 

“Not yet”, he says, and you understand it really. You also can’t manage to sleep as easily as the others after being so tired for so long. Something to do with your body being pumped on adrenaline still. You’d have to ask Reid about that too. Hotch looks about the same as you feel, body riddled with all the pent-up anxiety of the last few days and a heavy unsteadiness that makes his shoulders slump. You can tell from the way he isn’t fixating at reports, as he usually does on a flight back, no matter the time; and the way his attention seems to go from the plane window, to you and then the silhouettes of the others sleeping. You wonder if he does the latter to reassure himself that everyone is safe and sound. 

“You know”, Hotch says softly and you follow his line of sight to where Rossi has dozed off, “he didn’t mean anything by it.” 

You raise an eyebrow quizzically. _Does he mean Rossi telling you to see other people_ _, earlier today?_ You’d forgotten about it just as soon as it had happened. You recall the way Hotch had eyed you on the back of the SUV, as if there had been something else worrying you. 

“Hotch” you start and you can’t hide the amusement from your voice, “I don’t get offended that easily.” 

He should know. He’s witnessed quite a lot of male unsubs yelling profanities at you more than once. And that includes the time where you went to conduct interviews with Morgan at a federal prison, the tapes of which had several criminals tell you R-rated stuff. You knew with a certainty that Hotch had seen those. 

His features are soft, and you try to read him. 

“Yes, but you may not be as used to his bickering as I am” 

You smile at that. “I really don’t mind. Don’t worry about it.” 

“It’s his way of showing affection, you know”, there’s a ghost of a smile on his face and he seems protective almost, but maybe it’s just your own wishful thinking. 

“Oh, is it?” you ask and lean back, enjoying his attention a bit too much. 

Hotch shakes his head, in that same way he always does when he doesn’t want to laugh or smile but it escapes him. 

“I wanted to make sure that you’re getting acclimated properly” 

_Acclimated_. That sounds 50% like an excuse to you, but you don’t mind it either. You know that he’s adamant in doing these regular check-ups with the team. You’d overheard him having a long chat with Reid just a week ago, and his sincere invitation for a coffee out whenever he felt lonely. You glance at Reid’s figure passed out in the couch beside the two of you, sleeping without a sound. 

“I am”, you say hoping your voice sounds genuine. Yet you can’t help but spin it off and make a teasing remark. Not when his eyes linger longer on you every time on night rides back home, where he looks most vulnerable and his stoic façade seems to open up. It happens even now. It’s in the glint of his eyes, the way they trace every movement you make as if you were stuck on playback. 

So, you deviate. “I’m not that scared of planes you know” 

He laughs again, and you enjoy the sound everyday a bit more than the last. His eyes wrinkle each time he does so, and the dimples on his cheeks deepen. 

“Yes, I am aware. Not everyone can afford to have a father as a pilot”. 

Of course, he knew everything about you and your family’s background. It was in your personal file. Yet this feels like something else entirely, that he’d talk so openly on your background. 

You shrug slowly, “what can I say.” 

“How are you- “ 

He starts and watches as your delicate fingers latch onto the spine of your German dictionary, a nervous habit he’d notice you do whenever you put a book down, 

“-adjusting? _Really_?” 

He’s back into assessing mode, you can tell. He knows that you are handling Emily Prentiss’ loss better than the others, yet he also noticed the way your shoulders would fall a bit whenever you passed through the hall and saw Prentiss’s picture frame. Just like everyone else. 

“I noticed you always deflect when asked that” 

You raise an eyebrow. So, you’re being profiled. 

“Not true”, you counteract. Reid had just asked you that same question 20 minutes ago, as everyone had settled into the plane seats before departure. You’d truthfully answered that you were tired and looking forward to sleeping soundly for 2 whole days. 

“Reid just asked me that before we left Ohio.” You try not to sound too cocky yet your voice has its own mind, 

“Right before he blacked out” your eyes pass to Reid’s figure sleeping on the couch, as if he can confirm that 

“he told me he’d never spend a day doing nothing, by the way”. 

Hotch regards you as if running your answer back in his mind for any faulty lines, but never frowns. 

“You are deflecting now” 

You let out a sigh in response. 

“You’re acting like my therapist” 

He seems satisfied. Leans back on his seat and crosses his arms before himself, as if his question had been just to get a rise out of you. Well, he succeeds. He’s cocked an eyebrow and the dimples on his face show before his smile does, and he looks almost boyish with this new playfulness – foreign to you, but one he dedicates almost exclusively to Jack and maybe even Rossi. The ones only closest to him, who know all of his facets. 

“Are you deflecting?” he repeats. 

“Maybe...” you admit with half a voice. He’s being kind, you remind yourself, and its admirable the way he cares about everyone on his team. 

“But it’s not because I’m going through something. I can’t get the image of the assessment procedure out of my head” 

Or _him_ at that procedure. 

“It’s not because of you”, on a _negative sense_ , at least, “but because that was my second one.” 

He waits patiently for you to fill in the blanks. 

“2 years ago, in Dallas, in Agent Aria’s unit, we lost a member of the team.” 

You look down at your fingers, willing them to pause their hectic movements, thumbing the corners of the German book on the table before you. 

“He joined the unit only 2 years before I did, so we were the youngest ones. It was a robbery gone wrong. Unpredictable and violently fast.” 

_You don’t blame yourself for it_ _, that simple action of checking_ _before heading_ _headfirst_ _into a dangerous situation_ _unlike_ _Agent_ _Revi had done before you. The robbers had not considered the police or federal agents showing up, and catching them by surprise had made them respond in panic. Bullets went flying on all sides, as you’d been cornered, hiding in one spot. Agent Revi had pushed ahead followed by 2 police officers of_ _the_ _Bellevue_ _precinct_ _, and you knew, from the silence that instilled 1 minute later, that something had gone terribly wrong._

You look back at Hotch, ridding yourself of the memories. 

“It doesn’t bother me as before” you reassure, and he waits, looking for any signs of hurt to cross your face, but you don’t allow it to, “But I hadn’t been prepared for the same thing to happen...”, _so quickly._

_“_ So, when you ask me that question -”, you feel steadier as you look him in the eyes, his as unreadable as you think yours are. 

“-for a split second you become my former unit’s psychologist.” 

His eyebrows twitch up, in sympathy and surprise. 

“I’m sorry”, he offers the words slowly, as if he’s considering how they might sound in his head first. 

“I didn’t know.” 

“But that doesn’t mean that I want you to stop asking me”, you say hurriedly, your cheeks heating up, feeling shy as if he could read your mind. A part of you appreciated his attention, the way he’d look over at you on the field. How he’d take a quick look at you, whenever you were discussing with Reid over geographical profiles going on nights after nights without sleeping. Or how, when coming back from the M.E, he’d look at you, silent question in his eyes, waiting for a nod back from you to assure that you were fine. He did it with everyone, these brief readings of the entire team while all of you were out working. But that same small part of you that likes the attention, does it for a whole other set of reasons, much more secret and darker than you’d ever admit aloud. The same ones that make you very aware of his body before yours. And wish the table wouldn’t be fixed in the space in between. 

He smiles. 

“I won’t”. 

“Good” you mumble and look down, willing his eyes off of you. “It’s unnerving seeing you with long red locks is all. Not my fault.” 

His face winces in surprise. 

“My psychologist had red hair.” You explain as he chuckles. “But it will adjust in no time”, you repeat and he nods. 

“How are you?” you ask in turn. 

“Exhausted”, he breathes out, his shoulders slumping back, letting go of the pretense that he’s not as tired as you feel. He moves and stretches his legs towards you, underneath the seat, shins coming to press flush against your calves. And you unconsciously lean against the accidental touch. 

“Do you miss Agent Aria’s unit?” 

You let the question hover between you, unsure how to respond sincerely. There’s something hidden in that question too, but you’re not sure if it’s your imagination. _Did you miss anyone in that unit?_ It seemed to ask. You want to say no, you think you miss the unit more, than Dallas, or the work done. But then again, you miss the team more than the field work. You don’t know if it’s the time, rounding up to 2 or 3am. Or the way he looks at you, as you feel the warmth radiating off his body, through the only point of contact between the two of you. Or the silence that surrounds you that makes you break it with an open heart. 

“Would it make me a bad person if I said no?” you look at him for any sign of judgement but he shakes his head no. 

“I liked the work”, you say far too quickly, remembering that this could count as a formal question, but you feel bone-tired, your mind too drained to keep up a serious façade. 

“But Aria didn’t like me much” you admit, “And I miss Dallas but not the weather.” 

He gives you a hint of a smile in reply. 

A long pause falls between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It makes the back of your neck heat up, and your hands sweaty. It’s just the airplane, you convince yourself. You think back to your friend Amelia’s jazz show. Rossi was always super confident when talking to women, you’d assumed it from his personality but Amelia had mentioned something about the last time they’d met. How he’d joked about being out of his element. A strange thought crosses you. Maybe Rossi needed a wingman. You look at Hotch again, his gaze shifted to the plane window on his left. He does need another life out of this one, and out of Jack too. 

“You should join Rossi on his outing” you offer gently, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s his way of showing affection, you know. Asking you out.” Maybe it is Hotch that needs a wingman more. 

He nods, that small smile still on his lips. You try not to follow where his eyesight lands, how they search your eyes for something before ending at your fingers, gently tapping the sides of the dictionary on the table. That same heat never leaves. You’d never let your mind cross to that territory – to thinking about what he’d be like outside of work, outside of the BAU and profiling. You imagine it is more of this: of him smiling openly, and joking, and then looking women in the eyes before talking to them with that deep baritone voice of his. You can’t picture him flirting. You don’t think you want to. 

“Maybe I will” he says, and his smile is contagious. 

And if he falls asleep sitting across from you, hands crossed over his chest, and you still feel warm, you blame it to the heating of the airplane. Maybe he appears in your dream too, outside of this setting, out of plane rides, SUV drives, well-lit bureau offices, and gloomy police departments. Maybe he wears something that is not a suit too. 


	8. Saw You in a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team is tired after a long case - and you share a room with Hotch.
> 
> TW: mention of weed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I watched Fleabag last night and couldn't stop thinking of the hot priest

“Think we should call it a night” Rossi says, and gives you a strange look. You blink. Your wondering mind had fixated on a point in space, then blanked out, and it had happened to be where David Rossi was sitting. His eyebrows go up and you lean back on your seat. 

A mug of steaming hot tea is left before you on the table, large hand coming to unwrap around it and you look up, meeting Hotch’s gaze. He looks more tired than the rest of you. As he sits down, he lets out a small huff like he’s been punched in the gut. The more times go by at night the more involuntary noises there are from everyone. The other cup he offers to Reid who shakes his head in turn. 

“Yes, I think that’s the best idea so far” Hotch answers. 

Emily is struggling to keep her eyes open on your other side. You can’t help but fixate on her from time to time, still not believing that she’s alive and real. An after-effect of Doyle’s that you fear will remain for a long time. 

JJ is right behind her, dozed off completely on the small couch of the office. Her light snoring has the opposite effect, making you feel drowsy as well. Making the entire office calm. She’d joined the BAU right away, after Emily, and her presence those first few months had been as comfortable as Emily’s. Like two sides of the same coin. Derek pipes up, and stops spinning in his chair. He’s been doing it for a full 30 seconds and it’s been driving you slowly insane. Not from the scratching off the wheels against the hardwood floors, but from the way he seems the most awake out of all of you. 

“So, it’s unanimously?” Rossi asks, and takes his time staring at everyone’s faces. 

You bring your cup close to your lips, and inhale deeply. The smell of laurel and honey immediately relaxes your face. You hadn’t even realized you’d been frowning until you take a sip. The warm liquid makes a route from your throat down to your stomach, and your body is not tense anymore. It’s like a warm blanket is wrapped around your shoulders immediately. _God, and to imagine you hated tea with a passion._

“Saya?” Rossi asks again. And you have to squeeze your eyes open. 

“Hmm?” 

“Sleep?” 

Derek is smiling at you, a fond look in his eyes, that’s mirrored on Spencer as well. You put your cup down firmly on the table, putting some distance so you can focus. 

“Sorry, I was having a moment” you say, voice softer than before. 

Emily stifles a laugh, “Yeah, looked like you were about to need a room soon with that cup of tea” 

“What did you put in it, Hotch?” Derek asks, staring at him. He’s got a smug look in his face, while Hotch's face remains fixed in a serious frown. 

“Cannabis” he says flatly and you nod. That makes sense. 

Emily and Spencer laugh. 

“Should do that more often” you say to Hotch. 

“Are you recommending we smoke weed?” Derek asks. It’s a ridiculous discussion but everyone is too tired and numb on the uncomfortable office chairs to have a straight rational thought. 

“Maybe we’d be more productive” you reply. 

Hotch shakes his head, already stating his position. 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that” Rossi says softly, but he’s smiling too. 

“Tell that to your friend here” you bop your head towards Hotch, who’s already finished his cup of tea. 

“Sleep, guys?” Emily reminds you all. “Yes? Saya, say yes or I’m going to have to fight you with my bare hands” 

You nod feverishly, “yes please, sleep sounds very sexy right now” 

They all stand up at once, as if all their chairs had bounced them up. Emily reaches for JJ immediately, kneeling down in front of her. You try not to look onto what seems almost intimate – the way her hand comes to brush hair off her face, hand then coming to rest on her shoulder. She leans in, whispering her name softly over her cheek, almost inaudible, and JJ rouses from sleep. Her smile is wide when the first thing she sees upon waking is Emily. 

“You need a hand?” Derek asks, shaking you out of your trance. 

_God,_ that almost looked too romantic, the act of it making you immediately wish for the same. It makes you almost miss seeing someone. Even being close to someone having that same thing they do, without even dating. Ever. Though, you don’t know if there’s ever been something there, hidden underneath the surface for the both of them. 

“Saya?” 

He points to the large stack of folders at your side of the table. Too messy to tell which ones are important and which are not. 

“Nah,” you wave a hand at him, “thanks, I can manage” 

“Okay” he says, not pushing. Too tired to insist on carrying things that you’d have to reorder first. 

“I’m going ahead” he says, and pats your shoulder lightly. Spencer trails behind him soundlessly, mumbling a “see you” at you. 

Rossi is trying to tidy up his side of the table, picking up files and forming a neat pile. The sight of him doing that makes you want to do it too. Even if it's just so the office tomorrow morning does not look tike it housed deranged dogs during the night. You start picking up the empty cups around the table, too many to count for them to be from just seven people. But you make no effort to do anything more, as you leave them on the sink. When you return, Hotch’s got his suit jacket slung over his elbow and Emily and JJ are gone. 

“If you’re later than 3 minutes I’ll hijack Aaron’s car and leave you here” Rossi says, pointing an index finger at you. “Don’t test me” 

“Sure thing, dad” you mutter and he marches out the door not even deigning to comment on your words. He knows already that 3 minutes is far too less time for you. 

Hotch reaches out for files from your corner in an effort to help and you swat his hand away. 

“You’re going to mess them up” you say with a high pitch. 

He draws back, raising his eyebrows. “Seems like I can’t do more damage than that” 

“You’re mistaken” you say and you speed up, already picking up which ones feel relevant and which not. You leave them out on the cleaned side of the table, and the rest you push around so it seems more orderly as they pile up. 

“Can you put these in your suitcase?” 

You look up and he’s already doing it, reading the titles of the documents before placing them inside. 

“Thanks” 

“Come on, or Dave is going to leave us both here” 

He waits for you to walk out the office first, and follows. You hug your bags and jacket to your stomach, not bothering to put it on when the distance to the car is short. Once out of the room though, the cold air bites into your skin, and a shiver passes through you. The rest of the building’s lights are off, air conditioning too. 

“He has the car keys?” you ask but your teeth chatter, shoulders up to your neck and slouching from the cold. 

“Yes” Hotch says, and he shuffles closer, his long-sleeved arm coming to brush against yours as you walk. 

“That was not a smart decision” 

He glances at you again, and pauses. You do too automatically. 

“Did you forget something?” 

He shrugs his jacket off his elbow letting it fall to his hand, catching it. 

“No” he says, and leaves the suitcase on the ground, between his feet. He opens up his jacket and places it over your shoulders, wrapping it loosely over your back and arms. 

“Thanks” you mumble, feeling shy under his gaze - eyes soft and dimples at the sides of his smile. 

The soft material of his navy blue jacket around you coming to your thighs immediately blocks out the cold. The gesture itself makes you blush just as fast. 

“Wait” he mutters and reaches over. His long fingers and thumbs tug at the collar of the jacket over your neck, bringing it up to shield it, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over your jugular, making your entire body light up in response and gravitate closer, reacting at his touch on instinct. He doesn’t linger longer than necessary but his proximity has already worked better at protecting you from the cold than his jacket has. He picks up the suitcase then, and you trail behind as he leads the way out. Rossi is already sitting on the passenger seat, having turned the car on, together with the radio and aircon. He cocks an eyebrow when he sees you walk by his side to get inside, Hotch’s jacket on, but he doesn’t comment on it. The drive to the small hotel Penelope had found for you is short but the rest of the team is spread out in the couches and sofas in the reception hall. 

“Is there something wrong?” Hotch asks, seeing them all, not disappeared yet into their bedrooms. 

“They said we had to share rooms” Spencer answers with a yawn. 

“What?” Rossi responds, voice already filled with anger. “This is ridiculous, they’re going to hear about this-” 

But he continues towards the reception, talking to himself, Hotch following behind, albeit reluctantly. The couches the others are sat on look too inviting. So, you stand up, fearing if you don’t, you’ll fall asleep right then and there. Hotch and Rossi return, keys in hand, but Rossi’s happy face bugs you. 

“No more sharing?” you ask tentatively. 

Rossi shakes his head. “Not me, at least. I don’t care what happens to the rest of you” 

He shakes the key in his hand, grinning. 

“What?” Derek reacts, “why do you get a single room?” 

“Because I’m rich” he responds matter-of-factly. 

“Hey, unrelated.” You step towards him, palm out. “Can I borrow a thousand dollars quick?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m begging you to get some sleep before you speak to me again” 

You roll your eyes, “can’t hurt to ask, jeez” 

Emily and JJ laugh at you. 

“How many rooms are left, then?” Derek barges on, “if that Italian bast-” he stops before he says a curse word and you laugh. 

“Only 3” Hotch replies, and opens his palm, revealing the keys. 

“Can I?” Derek asks and when Hotch nods, he picks one up. 

“Derek, I will shut up for an entire week if you let me be your roommate” Spencer says in a hurry, standing up. 

“If I don’t lie down in the next 5 minutes, I think I will do it on this floor” 

“Start by shutting up now and we’re good” 

Spencer nods, and runs after him towards the stairs. Emily stands up too, pushing JJ to her feet as well. 

“Think we’ll take the other one. Night guys” 

JJ smiles apologetically at you but she doesn’t say much as they both turn towards the stairs. 

“Loved how we just voted and actually asked what everyone thought first” you mutter to yourself. Hotch lets out a deep sigh. 

“You okay?” you ask but he doesn’t pay attention to it. 

“They’re like children sometimes” he confesses. 

“Rossi too?” 

He laughs, and you both head out next. 

“Think he might be the most spoiled one out of them all” 

“True” 

\- 

The room has two beds, and thankfully a large bathroom with two sinks, a bathtub and even a shower. After changing clothes, you head back in wanting to see it better. 

“Wow” you say to yourself, the acoustics of the room making your voice echo. 

“What is it?” Hotch asks from the bedroom. 

“This bathroom” you say, and turn when he walks in, “too bad we’re on a case or I’d sleep in the bathtub tonight” 

He leans against the doorframe, eyeing the bathtub with the same reverie you do. He’s changed into a white shirt and pajama bottoms, and he already looks more relaxed than before. 

“You think Rossi got one of those in his room?” 

He raises his eyebrows, “why?” 

“Just wondering. I’m already picturing him with a cigar and scotch, sitting in” 

He laughs. “That’s something you want to picture?” 

“Not naked, of course” you say, “just full-on clothes on. Contemplating his life. Thinking how money does not equal friendship. And sometimes it does not make you happy.” 

“You’re enjoying this a bit too much” he says and comes to stand by the other sink. He leaves his tube of toothpaste over the counter, toothbrush at hand. 

“So, maybe I want him to not sleep well this evening.” you shrug, “So what? I’m only human” you go back into the bedroom and he calls out. 

“You’re full of spite tonight” 

You return with your own toothbrush. 

“I’m not perfect” 

You squeeze toothpaste – his, since you couldn’t find yours inside your bag – over your blue brush and wash your teeth in the other sink. The mirror in front of you is almost as large as the entire side wall, stopping only at the ceiling and starting from the length of the sink. And the brilliant white surfaces of the porcelain appliances make the entire room luxurious. The lights ahead help as well, bright and white. But you can’t think of anything more relaxing than taking a bath. 

You meet Hotch’s eyes in the mirror and he shakes his head very slightly. He spits out on the sink. 

“What?” 

You shrug, and continue brushing your teeth, mouth full. He fills a glass with water and rinses his mouth down. 

“You’re thinking something” 

You shake your head, feigning innocence. He leans down before the sink to the towel hanging there, and wipes at his mouth, eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. That position almost makes you squirm, your neck flushing a crimson red. 

“Spit it out” he says, his tone of voice resembling an order, the kind that at times makes you shift in your seat when you witness it in the job. You squeeze your mouth shut, feeling saliva leaving your lips just from his words. When he stands up again, you spit out the toothpaste, and rinse your mouth. He places both hands on the sides of the sink, arms and body straight. Gaze unrelenting. 

“Was thinking about the case” but your sentence sounds like a question. And it’s a straight up lie. 

“About the case?” he questions. “I don’t believe you” 

“That sounds like a you problem” you pick up the towel from your sink and wipe at your mouth. Then throw water at your face, wanting to cool yourself down. You have to, when you have to head back and sleep in the same room as him. 

“Do I have to force it out of you?” 

Your jaw hangs open. He can’t possibly not realize how sexual this all sounds. At least to you. 

“Fine”, you let out, and hide your face with the towel, drying the water off. “Was thinking about food” 

“Food?” he repeats, reluctantly. 

“Yes, I swear.” You still feel his eyes on you, even with the towel covering your face. 

“And?” he urges you on. 

“And maybe eating it in a bathtub submerged in hot water, while sipping on a glass of wine. With only lit candles around” 

You have to stop hiding your face at some point so you do. Leaving the towel as tidily as possible over the hanger. 

“That sounds heavenly actually” 

He watches you with fondness or what resembles it. Then his expression changes. 

“There's something else” he says and goes out. Before you can ask what, he switches off the bathroom light from outside, leaving you in the dark. 

“Hotch?” 

He walks back in and he’s fumbling around, his hand palming the sides of the wall next to the doorframe. 

“You look crazy” 

“Be patient” he orders, his low voice echoing in the space around you. 

He hits a switch, and at once low lights turn on at the sides of the bathtub. They’re blue and you can almost picture what it would look like- in the bath, surrounded by bubbles, the lights making the room atmospheric. 

“That’s _hot”_ you let out and Hotch chuckles near you. 

“I think I need 40min alone now” you turn to him and he steps out turning the lights back on. 

“Call me when my steak arrives” 

He turns the bathtub lights off. 

“Sure thing” he plays along but you still follow him out into the bedroom. 

You half expect him to lie down immediately but he goes to the only desk in the room. Sits down on the chair, back straight as he opens up files. You somehow knew that was going to unfold before your eyes before he even did it. You sit on your bed, right behind his chair. You reach over for his suitcase at his side and take out your files. Just one workaholic in a room is not enough. Apparently. 

“You’re not going to sleep?” He asks without turning. You hear him shuffle through documents, his back to you. 

“I still feel wired” 

He hums in understanding. You don’t know how long it continues like that. Him working quietly near you, as you try to reread the statements of the families of the victims. At some point you must have fallen asleep because you wake to a blanket wrapped loosely over you. The source of it being the man still sitting at the same place you’d last seen him. The room temperature is significantly higher from the space heater. It is nice and warm, and the room is cozier than when you’d first come in. Yet your body feels aflame, like you’d taken a few laps in the tropics. You groggily stretch your arms over your head, watching Hotch on that chair. The hair meeting the nape of his neck stick out in different directions. His neck is flushed from the heat, and it’s the most attractive thing in the world. The crisp white t-shirt he’s still donning has a few pressed lines on the back, the muscles there moving the firm broad shoulders slowly as he scribbles - the sound of his pen scratching on paper too comforting. You can’t help but watch it all, transfixed by the shape of his body, something that’s always been hidden and covered by the layers of suits he wears at work. There’s feverish sweat pooled around the collar of your shirt and you shake the blanket off. You stand up, attempting to not make a single noise. Your bed creaks giving you away but you still tiptoe barefoot to the bathroom. You close the door behind and press your back against the cold tiles at once. Your mind is reeling. Not just by his presence. It has always felt normal, like the most comfortable thing in the world, and you always felt the lack of it - like oxygen sucked out of your lungs. It's the confusion of it all. You'd always thought him attractive, since the first moment you'd laid eyes on him, and it crossed your mind like it did with others, from time to time, heightened only when you weren't sober. And this feels the same, like you're back at the bar near Quantico, two shots of tequila in your system, eyes resting over Hotch's lips while he talks to others - meeting your eyes with a small smile, from time to time from all your staring. On the way in, from the haste, you’d forgotten to turn on the lights, leaving you in the dark. You search for the lights of the bathtub he’d showed you before. The room turns in soft bluish tones and you inhale to steady yourself. Looking at the mirror, you’re caught by your own reflection. Your cheeks are sunburned red, lips plump and pink – and you almost don’t recognize yourself. 

And you know it’s not just because of his presence. It’s thanks to _the dream_. You close your eyes, wanting to remember the feeling before it fades away, together with the dream. It was nothing raunchy of the sorts, though you'd seen some of those as well - too fiction for you to overthink. 

_You are walking together, to nowhere in particular. You talk a mile a minute and he’s attentive, not really looking your way. And then, you say something that for the life of you, you can’t remember, and he glances your way. The rays of sunlight on his face make his eyes golden. His hand comes to rest over your shoulder blades, soft and warm, smiling at you tenderly, few strands of hair over his forehead dancing from the wind. Then, like it is the most natural thing in the world, his hand moves to the nape of your neck, wrapping around, heat and comfort enveloping you at once, his thumb rubbing lazy circles on your skin. He brings you closer to him, so that you are flush at his side, and you both continue to walk and chat, hand drooping to the small of your back. Never leaving you, bodies pressed close together._

And you can’t stop thinking about it - his hands on your skin and what they would feel like now, when you’re still so damn sensitive. He’d done it about a million times before. And so had you, not really paying any mind to what any type of touch would mean. You cling instead, as an antidote, to the feeling of the freezing cold tiles under your bare feet. Just to bring some sense into you. After a few deep breaths you turn back to the bedroom. You don’t know if it’s from the space heater but the air is still thick when you walk out. 

“Hey” you speak gently, not wanting to startle him. Your voice remains fogged with sleep and you linger by the door, unsure of navigating heading back out again, when he'd just been the subject of your dream, so palpable and real, just like he is now.

“Did you rest, at all?” you ask and glance at his side. 

His bed is slept in, pillow and sheet tossed around, and no blanket as it is in your bed. You feel lucky that you’d dozed off before him, so you didn’t have to watch him sleep, and have to see for the first time ever his face not sculpted by frowns and lines of worry. Not when your beds are placed to face each other so directly.

“Yes” he answers, without turning. His voice feels different too, more husky. 

“Did you sleep well?” you ask him. 

“Yes, you?” 

Your reply comes out as a hum as you sit back on your bed. You stretch out your legs and pick up the file you’d fallen asleep to. You hadn’t been there for the interviews. Not even at the M.E. But studying corpses is not on your list at the moment. You pause, finger pressed under one line of sentence that the father of the bride-victim had said. 

“Did Henry Maximillian have an alibi?” 

“The father?” he replies. 

“Yes” 

“Garcia had receipts of the purchases in the petrol station he said he went to” 

You run that through your mind. You reach for the bag you’d thrown on the floor by your bed when you’d first made it to the room. You scramble through the contents until your fingers find the cigarette pack. 

Then a beat. 

“Why?” 

He wraps an arm around the back of his chair, swinging his legs to the side to face you. The circles under his eyes have faded, and he looks rested, as much as the few hours have granted him. The rest of his hair is disheveled as well, the signs of sleep lingering on the rest of his features a clear tell. 

“He told JJ that he always takes the same route home, the 66-th, but in the same sentence he says he deviated to a secondary road” 

“Yes, that’s what JJ said as well. Garcia checked and it’s just a strange coincidence” 

You let out a breath. Your sleep from before has done nothing but leave you more drained. You fix the pillows in the bed so they rest against the headboard and lean your back against it, turned to Hotch. 

“Did you find anything new?” 

“Nothing” 

So, trying to stay up has brought nothing fruitful to either of you. You glance at the alarm clock on the side of your bed, digits blinking, showing it’s 5am. You look back at Hotch. 

“What’s stressing you?” he asks. 

“Nothing” you reply. There’s only the sound of the alarm clock by your side, ticking even though digital, and the rain pattering the windows by him. The sun not yet up. 

“You’re twirling the cigarette pack in your hand, like you want to smoke” 

You stop your movement, not realizing you had been. 

“Is that what we’re doing now?” 

He cocks an eyebrow. 

“Profiling whoever we have nearby?” 

“I’m not profiling you” he replies. 

“Then how do you know I’m stressed?” 

He watches you, a question in his gaze as if wondering if you really mean to know the answer. You nod, prodding him on. 

“You only ever smoke socially – with Sarah, Verona, Aubrey, and that one time with Spencer. But you started to do it more when you heard about Aria” 

“You remember my friends’ names?” you ask with a whisper but he ignores it. Knowing it’s only supposed to throw him off. 

“It’s from the stress of not being able to reach out to your former colleagues, and unable to be there in person. You started doing it as a habit.” 

He hits the nail in the head. 

“But you want to quit” 

You gasp. 

“Now, there’s no way you can know that. I haven’t even told that to anyone.” 

You push yourself to the middle of the bed and point a finger at him. 

"You’re cheating.” 

His lips move to a tight smile, eyebrows arching, regarding you with a certain playfulness. He leans over, elbows coming to rest over his thighs. One arm hangs down between his legs, while the other props up his chin by his knuckle. The bed is closer to the ground so he seems taller even sitting. Still so imposing even out of the confines of the job.

“Do you _want_ me to profile you?” 

There’s no reason for that question to make your entire body feel electric. Not when that’s your job description, and the one thing you watch him do every day with others. Maybe it is because you’re lacking proper sleep. Or maybe because with both eyes closed, it almost looks like flirting. It most certainly sounds like it, from the way his voice drops low, seductive.

“Hit me” you say. 

Not before he runs a hand through his hair and adjusts his posture to match the challenge you’ve thrown him. Chair now turned fully towards you. Since he does it, you do it too. Spine as straight as you can muster, a pillow tucked between your stomach and legs crossed beneath you. And you try as hard as you can to keep a poker face. 

“You’ve been eating healthier – not that you hadn’t before, but you’re keeping track. Maybe you got a checkup recently.” He studies your features but nothing gives it away. 

“But it’s a fast decision to make just upon starting. If it’s not a health scare, something else important must have happened.” 

He drags his chair forward, wheeling it to where you stand. There’s the tiniest hint of a smile even as he keeps talking. His gaze never leaving yours. 

“A family member maybe said something?” he waits, eyes dropping to your lips, then to your fingers around the pillow, and back up. You don’t move an inch. 

“No?” he hums as he gets closer, chair hitting the side of your bed. 

“Someone else?” 

You shake your head no and your smile mirrors his now. 

“Hmm” he glances at the sides of your face, to where your hair must be a mess from the nap. His eyes trail back to your jawline, neck, and then collarbones. Back up to your mouth. You bring your head up, craning your neck, encouraging him to examine every inch of your face if necessary, enjoying his attention. 

“Then it must be something you deem the most important.” he says, and his face is so close. Since he's studying you it's almost justified you do the same, you think, while reveling on the planes of his face, the rise of his eyebrows, and the sculpted cheekbones that only ever make an appearance when his smiles are genuine. You smell the vanilla and papaya mixture of the hotel shampoo off of him, the same one you’d used. And something that is entirely him – faint like strawberries dipped in chocolate and something sharp – the day cologne you catch a whiff off whenever you sit by him. It hitches the breath in your throat and it leaves you dizzy. You feel every single word his baritone voice offers in the deep pit of your stomach, spreading heat throughout your entire body. 

“Your job.” he says then, “You didn’t catch the unsub in North Carolina. Derek did. You’re scared it’s going to ruin your stamina in the field” 

But you’ve stopped listening to a single word he’s let out since he’s placed both hands on your bed. Palms pressed to the sheets, bringing himself as close to you as he can muster. Hands so near to your knees that if you moved, or if he did, his fingertips would touch you. You don’t even remember at what point that happened. Or what even lead to it. There's a gnawing desire to just do so - move ever so slightly so you can feel the burn of his touch, the dream still a vivid taste on your tongue. You'd never craved it as you do now, not when his touches were always second-nature to him and never lacked.

When you don’t speak, he asks. 

“Am I right?” 

He seems to not note the closeness, because he’s still fixated on this little game. It's endearing. He'd called it profiling but it's frustrating that he can't seem to read the desperation in your eyes. 

“You sound almost cocky” you tease, voice sounding foreign in your throat, clouded with reverence and hunger, “Are you a sore loser, Hotch?” 

He exhales in response, but his smile remains. 

“Because if you are, I’m not sure you’re going to like the next minutes” 

“You’re telling me I’m wrong?” 

“I’m not telling you anything” 

“I think you’re the sore loser” he replies, “you don’t want to admit that I’ve caught you” he says the last words with an index finger pointed at your face, and it’s too much. Too attractive to not let it get to your mind – fueling your thoughts even further with images of him touching you. You keep your eyes trained on him, not breaking the gaze, and reach blindly for the cigarette pack on your right. As if he’s going to reprimand you, and maybe even desiring it specifically, you open the packet. You drag out a cigarette – he shakes his head immediately at the sight of it – and perch it on your lower lip. You know your lighter is all the way across the room, in the inside pocket of your jacket, but you narrow your eyes. All of this just to test him. 

“Who says I’m quitting?” 

You don’t know what you want him to do, deep, deep down. Or what you expect. But you’re awake and he is too, the case all the way to the back of your mind as it is for him. You just need him to react.

“I think you’re cheating” his voice is a whisper. He doesn’t need to speak up from the small distance between you, hot breath fanning your cheek. And you have to struggle to not close your eyes from just that, sending shivers down your spine.

“How so?” 

He stares at your mouth and lips for the longest time, no profiling excuse this time, shedding the room in silence - the only sound added being your ragged breathing. You tilt your head to the side, appreciating the way his t-shirt fits him on the front too, snug around the shoulders and biceps. He is completely different dressed in casual clothes. You’d thought it over a million times. 

And just as if you'd conjured him from your dreams, and deciding to finally quench your desires he reaches out, and you hold your breath; cigarette dropping from your lips. His large fingers brush featherlight against your cheek as they push a strand a hair away to the side, and you think you might combust from the impatience of his next movements, expectations welling up in your chest. It feels like your lungs cannot hold on, as you still in wait. He's eyeing your lips with the most fervent intensity, and when he looks into your eyes again you think you're going mad. And you could narrow the space yourself if it weren't for your entire body feeling like loose threads that might come off if you even tried to budge. You're mesmerized by the bop of his Adam's Apple as he swallows and he lets go, as if your skin had torched him. Pushing himself away just as quick, leaving you open-mouthed and bewildered.

He clears his throat and lets out a laugh, and it’s enough to snap you out of your thoughts. 

"I’m not going to encourage you” he says then, tongue lapping at his lower lip as he drags the chair away from your bed. _Too damn fucking late for that._

 _"God,_ ” you exhale involuntarily, as you watch him stand up and stretch, still close, the hem of his shirt rising up to reveal a small patch of skin over his stomach, toned and sculpted as you'd always pictured him to be. He leaves the chair in the distance between your beds, and it rolls back with force all the way to his side. He heads to the bathroom, switching the light on before going in. The turn of the key is the only sound as he locks the door behind him. You let your body go, falling on the bed on your back. 

_Fuck._ Your heart is beating a mile a minute, and you shut your eyes. You can still smell him. That’s the only thing you can breathe in the air, even as you bring your pillow to your face. _What kind of confidence had gotten to you, that you’d talked to him like that?_ Like you’re capable of being unaffected by something he said. You throw the pillow to your feet and spread your arms like a starfish, looking up at the ceiling. _It’s utterly ridiculous._ You can’t possible wish it – that he’d kissed you, that you’d kissed him and felt his strong shoulders underneath your palms. 

Your phone on the nightstand beeps and you force yourself up. Garcia’s name pops on the screen. 

_R_ _ise and shine birdie! (hope to god you slept because I've seen you try to work without sleep and I’m not impressed). I think I might have found something. Hope somebody out of you all is awake to finally pay me the attention I deserve._

You send back a quick message, and lots of heart emojis. You stand up, deciding to use Hotch’s time in the bathroom to get dressed. When he walks out, he finds you spinning on the chair right where he’d left it, dressed in jeans and a large sweater. The files spread all over the room are safely back inside his suitcase, over the desk. Your bags packed over the unmade bed. 

“Let me guess” he says flatly, “You can’t wait to start the day?” 

You let out a laugh and stop spinning. 

“You know me, early bird getting the worm. And all that” 

Not bothering to move you, he places a hand over the back of your seat right above your head, and squeezes around you to get to his bag by the door. 

“Garcia said she might have something” You answer, spinning around to face him as he takes out fresh clothes from the bag. At your words he reaches for the phone over his desk. 

“Did you call the others?” he asks. 

“Yep.” 

He reads through the texts in quiet. 

“Spence and Derek are up. JJ and Emily too, although begrudgingly.” 

He hits dial, and puts his phone to his ear, looking at you. 

“Dave?” 

“Tried three times, and then when he picked up he said some very interesting Italian words to me. And that he’d block my number” 

He nods, small smile escaping his lips. Then the person on the other end of the call responds. 

“Morning Garcia. Tell me. What did you find?” 

You stand up then, taking it as your cue to head to the bathroom. 

When you’re out he’s already in a blue button-up and pantsuits, tying silver cufflinks in the planchets of his sleeves. That image is enough to make you unsteady again but you reel your mind back to the case that seeks your attention more than anything else. His suit jacket lies folded over the side of his bed that is neat and tidy. The chair is back at the desk. And he updates you right away. 

“Reid and JJ are heading to a potential location at Westbrook. Prentiss and Morgan to the Maximillians house” 

He slips on the suit jacket. You stop in your tracks at the name. 

“Maximillians?” 

“Garcia watched the footage. It wasn’t him in the petrol station that night” 

“Shit” you let out and he nods. 

He opens the door, bags in hand, and you pick up yours, following after him. When you hit the light switch of the room, turning it off, your eyes linger for a second on the open door of the bathroom. Thinking back at the discussion that happened last night, and his comfortable presence in the room. And at the small bottle of vanilla and papaya shampoo smuggled into your bag. 

Then you’re out. 

\---------------- 


	9. Where is my mind?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your past in Dallas comes back to bite you in the ass, in the worst way you could have imagined.  
> (Angst!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of physical and emotional abuse; mention of child abuse

You don’t remember the series of event that lead to the change. First, came Emily’s death, the memory of it still stealing air from your lungs at times. It had never occurred to you that the people in your team would soon become a family and they were at risk at all times – again. Second, came JJ’s addition to the team, and you’d felt the team – after your official signing too – return to a well-oiled ship once again. Then, as if you all hadn’t gone through enough, Hotch left suddenly on a mission, reappearing only to signal that Emily’s death had been fake and a necessary evil in order to catch up to Doyle. It took some time before everyone eased back into the new information, truthfully. But it didn’t help you, specifically that Hotch regarded you still in the same way, even after all that time away. Your mind replayed time to time that night in your hotel room with him on one of the few cases after he’d returned, and you wondered if it even meant anything. You don’t know what you want it to mean either, considering you’d wanted him to cross boundaries so explicitly. But none of you mentions it, and it works. 

It happens on what looks to be a usual case – however usual all of them can be – a home robbery ended in murder, that the BAU was called to consult on, part-time. 

Derek and Emily, in the room with you, go through the papers scattered on the floor of the living room. With your gloves on, you can’t stop seizing up the lifeless body on the bed, covered with a thin sheet by the forensic team to preserve it. The apartment is an open plan loft, high walls and high floor-to-ceiling windows, ancient leather furniture artfully placed around, and large paintings of the sea taking up every wall of the space. There’s an uncomfortable itch and a voice in your head, as you look around the room, that this all is somehow familiar. 

“-avid book reader, and into psychology” Prentiss recites aloud. “What a combo” 

“So, a highly intelligent individual, just like the other one” Morgan says. “the targets are fixed for this unsub” 

You move to eye the wall at his side, a large painting of a cliff struck by waves, and you snap a photo, and dial Garcia’s number. She picks up right away. 

“Birdie?” she asks as a greeting. You’d caught her off guard as Morgan usually does the talking. 

“Hey, do you have a hit on the ID of this guy yet?” 

At your voice, both Prentiss and Morgan turn to you, surprised at your impatience. 

“Uh”, there’s typing on the other end, “not yet, I’m going to check for dental records” 

“I’ll send you a photo of a painting. Maybe check sales records, please?” 

“Of course, great idea.” 

You hang up and turn, finding Morgan and Prentiss standing before you. She speaks out first. 

“What’s wrong?” 

And you should really consider it, should really be convinced first but that same voice that had emerged first in your head, is now insistent. 

“I think I’ve been here before” 

They look shocked and turn to glance at one another. 

“You know him?” Morgan asks. 

“No” you answer, “I’ve never met him. But I know this apartment.” 

\-- 

Back at the precinct, they all wait patiently for you to start explaining what you’d already said to Derek and Emily. Hotch is the only one still standing up, as are you. 

“When I was working for agent Aria” you start, “I was partnered with the technical analyst at first. I was a freshman and inexperienced so I helped him.” You look at JJ and Hotch, remembering they’d met him too, on the LSDK case back then. 

“Agent Ronin Revi,” 

They nod at the name. 

“He was only 2 years older than me, and we worked well together.” 

Hotch’s eyes are curious, and he remembers the talk on the plane. He recalls any discussion ever you’d had with him about Aria’s unit. 

“He took the exams and upgraded into a fully-fledged agent shortly after, and we worked a case together – a bank robbery that the police wanted consultancy on.” 

You have to be emotionless, unaffected while recounting the story, but you can’t help the way your hands shake, so you hide them behind your back. 

“We were the first ones to arrive on the scene, together with a few police cars. Revi lead them in, and the robbers, they-” you inhale, and look down at your feet. 

You’d talked about him in therapy, in all the required assessment procedures Aria had thrust the entire unit into, and you’d mentioned him feebly to Hotch, but this tugs at something deep inside you making it feel fresh. When you blink, you hear the shots, loud and violent, and you see Revi’s twitching body on the ground, eyes desperately clinging into you. You remember the feeling of his hand clasping yours, nails biting into your skin as he lets go, eyes rolling back. 

_“T_ _hey_ _shot_ _-_ ” you let out and open your eyes. They stare at you with sympathy. But you can’t meet anyone’s eyes just yet. 

“-they went into frenzied panic and shot everyone, including him” 

You don’t want to state it aloud that you’d witnessed it too, not when your first reflex when storming the place had been to hide back into a column, while Revi pushed ahead. Not when you still feel guilty and cowardly. You swallow the emotions that threaten to pour out of your throat. 

“We were investigating an apartment complex before we were called in that another robbery was happening at the same time. It was supposed to be the house of one of the robbers – Revi had it tied to the only one that he could identify. But he wasn’t there in the shootout. Not as a victim because when the reinforcements arrived, nobody was left alive” 

“Do you remember the name?” Hotch asks. 

You don’t look at him as you speak, 

“Jonathan Reus. 30 years old, no counts of theft but he had a sealed criminal record.” 

That is the only piece of information you had stated to Morgan and Prentiss before. 

“The case was closed after that. And we weren’t allowed to do anything more. I never went back, never asked anyone about it.” 

“He could have moved out, left the country” Reid offers, voice soft. 

And it’s true, he could have, but you remember how Revi had found the name of the unsub, and maybe you should have pushed and gotten in touch with the local police. But you didn’t, because it had never crossed your mind that Revi would lie to you. 

“No, because he never became a clear suspect.” 

“What do you mean?” Rossi asks. 

“Revi told me that he’d relayed the information to the local police. He was in charge of the case and I never asked. But I think he never did. Not if he’s resurfacing like this.” 

Hotch’s severe tone demands your attention, “Why?” 

You don’t know the real reason behind it, but you assume knowing Revi. 

“Reus’ name popped up after the intel Revi’s father gave us. I’m assuming he didn’t want his father’s name to show up in the case file as he had just gotten out of prison. It would have sent him back in if Reus proved to be the unsub.” 

“And did he have any connection to the robberies?” Hotch asks again. 

You know he’s doing it to feed the case the BAU has, but it takes all of your strength to not snap at him. Not when he seems to be judging Revi’s decisions so openly before you. Judging you too for never asking questions. 

“I never asked.” you admit, “He didn’t think so. I wasn’t in charge so I thought he had transferred any information to the police.” 

“But he didn’t” Hotch says, and the fact you can’t decipher his look makes you feel worse. 

“I know he was wrong to do that” you raise your voice, staring him down, “if that’s what you’re implying. But he was my friend first and I trusted him. I didn’t push because I knew he’d end up sucked into the whirlpool of his father’s dramatics and wrongdoings once again and alone. Revi reassured me that he would tell everyone.” 

Okay, so maybe all your strength had been for nothing. You squeeze your eyes shut, regretting immediately the words. When you open them, Hotch is still frowning, but you think you see hurt in his eyes too. 

“Sorry, I didn’t-” 

He’s quick to change the subject. 

“Was the apartment the same as you’d left it?” 

“Y-yes” you reply, “the exact same. I have-” you glance around the table, “I have photos of it, from back then” 

“Okay. Garcia-” he calls and she nods in the video chat screen of the laptop in the middle of the table, “I want you to work on this with Kuroki” 

You flinch at his tone of voice, already dismissing you. 

“We need the name of his father” he says, voice sharp, looking at you and you nod, “Garcia, I need you to run any checks on both of them.” 

You're done with your explanation so you retreat, sitting close to Rossi. 

“Agent Ronin Revi too” 

Your head snaps to Hotch’s. 

“The man is dead, Hotch” you say softly, but he ignores it, his eyes still glued on Garcia. 

“Y-yes sir,” Garcia says, finally answering. 

“Thanks” he replies to her and not you – making your blood boil. 

“Hotch,” you call again, wanting him to at least meet your eyes when you speak “he’s innocent. He died at that shootout. He had nothing to do with it.” 

He finally glances at you, but his words are venom. 

“He lied” 

“He’s innocent” you repeat again. “Why can’t you just take my word for it? Why do we need to dig into his life and expose everything he went through? He’s _dead.”_

And you don’t think you could take it, having to watch them all delve into the lives of a man who’d already went through so much – and scrutinize his life and yours. It feels more than just a simple invasion of privacy. It’s more brutal than that. 

“He lied to you, and to the police” he counteracts. 

“He made a mistake!” you slam your hands over the table, pushing yourself off your feet, “He was killed in that robbery, Hotch. He didn’t have anything to do with it. I can vouch for it.”

"Are you willing to put your job in the line for that? For _him_?"

And you don't think it over before you answer - you don't hesitate one single second.

"Yes."

A flicker of something passes through his eyes, his face twitches for an instant before it is steeled again. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his gaze is harsh. His voice is low, chilling to the bone. 

“He withheld substantial information from the police” 

“Yes,” your voice goes high, involuntarily, “because his father fucking abused him all his life and he was scared to go against him – not because he conspired with them!” 

It doesn’t cross your mind at all that you shouldn’t be cursing, not in front of everyone, or directly at your unit chief. 

“We are doing a background check. That’s undisputable” 

_He’s so fucking frustrating,_ that’s the only thought circling your head. 

“I was involved in that case too. That mistake is as much mine as it is his. I was cut off the case. I never even followed up!” 

He doesn’t dignify you with a response, which makes you angrier. 

“Why don’t you do a background check on me too, while you’re at it? I had responsibility too!” 

You point a finger at his face, standing before him, rage spilling out of your entire body, making it shake. You can smell him, and it makes you more frustrated than before. You don’t want to be distracted by everything that’s ever happened. You don’t want your mind foggy with the last time he’d been as close to you as he is now. 

“He’s innocent. Why can’t you just trust _me_ and not dive into this, into his life?” 

It hurts more that Revi could have made a stupid mistake such as this, and even more that he may have done it on purpose. But it can’t be true. He’d never been one to hide evidence. And you don’t think you want to find out. 

“Sit” he orders, unaffected, tone of voice raucous and jarring to your ears, “ _down_ ” 

You glare at him, eyeing the vein in his forehead popping with the same anger that is reflected on you. 

“No.” you breathe out, “why are you being so _fucking-_ ” 

His eyes go wide, and he’s ready to snap at you again, mouth already open, ready to say something, but Rossi interrupts him. Both of you. 

“Aaron” his voice is sharp. “let it go.” 

And it works, and it’s even more offensive to you, that he’d follow so easily David Rossi’s suggestion instead. But not before he shoots you another order. 

“You’re out of the active investigation” 

You can’t believe your ears. He's punishing you for nothing. He's grounding you just because you spoke against him. Freezing you in place, Hotch’s gaze doesn’t leave yours, but he gives directions to the rest of the room. 

“Morgan, Prentiss, talk to the M.E; Reid and JJ to the loved ones of the victims. Rossi and I will talk to the Dallas unit and the police chief over the previous case.” 

But they scramble once they get their respective orders, not waiting to hear what the other is doing. It leaves only you, Hotch and Rossi alone in the room, Penelope’s face having disappeared long-time ago from the computer screen. Rossi stands up and Hotch turns around, ignoring you. You raise your hands up, flustered. 

“What do I do, then?” you ask. 

He’s doing that same motion he always does, rubbing his fingers together, not deigning you with a look. 

“Talk to Garcia” 

And Rossi follows behind as he leaves the room, leaving you with your racing thoughts. 

\-- 

“This is like an intense game of find the difference” Penelope says, and you huff out, leaning both elbows over her table, eyes never leaving the screen. 

She’s got images of the loft from today on one side, and on the other side is pictures you’d taken years ago with Revi. You glance at the clock on the bottom left of the screen stating it’s 6pm already – 2 hours already passed since you’d last seen anyone else from the team. You think now, that it might be Hotch’s grand plan, to leave you out of the loop and instead focus on the old investigation. It must be – you haven’t left Penelope’s Batcave since your briefing at noon. Then, as Penelope switches to two other photos, a thought pops into your head. They had to still be asking Penelope for help, she was the technical analyst – obviously. When did the BAU ever not need her? 

“Penelope?” You glance at the woman sitting by your side, and she turns when you don’t say anything more. 

“What’s wrong?” 

But you pause because you don’t know how to broach the subject yet. 

“I was thinking” you start, and she leans back on her chair, attention focused on you, “do you know if they’ve tracked Reus?” 

She narrows her eyes at you, realizing what you’re doing. 

“Because, you know” you continue, noticing she’s not convinced, “the team needs all help we can get them, so if there’s any new information, I’d be more helpful to you. And subsequently to them too, out there in the field.” 

She considers it for a second. 

“I can’t” she says and you exhale in frustration, “Hotch told me not to include you in the active investigation because you’re a witness” 

You shrug, and you’re not as self-confident as you’d first started. 

“I’m not, really. I was just there when it happened but I’ve never seen the guy. I didn’t witness anything-“ 

She shakes her head, not changing her mind. So, you appeal to her differently. 

“Hotch doesn’t need to know. And I will owe you for life. If there’s anything at all that I can do for you, I will. I swear” 

That changes her entire demeanor and a small smile appears on her face. 

“I have a couple of questions” 

“Okay” That’s not what you were expecting. “I can answer all of them. As many as your heart desires.” 

Her grin gets bigger. 

“You sure you don’t need something else though? Like I could help with your paperwork?” 

She shakes her head again. 

“No, no. The questions will do.” 

“Okay,” her insistence throws you off, but nothing can be as demanding as what you’re asking of her – to disregard Hotch’s orders. 

“Okay” she nods, “but I will not accept one-word answers.” 

“Okay?” 

She glances at the door, and gets up, closing it firmly and hurries back into her seat. That should be enough of a sign, in retrospect. She wheels her chair nearer to you and with the softest voice and biggest grin speaks again. 

“What’s this thing with Hotch and you about?” 

“What?” Your shock pours out with your voice – out of everything you hadn’t expected her to ask about Hotch. 

“The _thing”_ she repeats, an eyebrow up, drenched in curiosity, “is it like, _sexual_?” 

This time your voice is high-pitched and incredulous. “What?” 

She rolls her eyes, “C’mon, you were at each other’s throat hours ago. And you begged him to understand. Felt like jealousy on his part since you practically told him you trusted that guy with your entire life.” She's already rambling but you feel powerless to stop her, because you hadn't thought of it that way. _Hotch jealous over Revi? And for what?_

She raises her hand up, and mimics a knife cutting the air, “You could cut the sexual tension in there with a knife. And I wasn’t even in the room. I can’t imagine what it would have felt like for the others.” 

Your cheeks flush immediately because your embarrassment in front in your team from before remains undigested in your stomach. 

“That w-was, that wasn’t-” but you can’t form a coherent sentence, “that wasn’t what that was.” 

Her eyebrows shoot up at your reaction. 

“So, you never slept with him?” 

Your jaw hangs open, eyebrows raised, and your mind blacks out. 

“ _What?_ ” 

She takes a look at you and shakes her head, disappointed. 

“Damn, I really thought for sure you had in March” 

Your voice returns just to repeat her last word. 

“March?” 

“Yeah, that time when he wouldn’t speak to you in the office?” 

And you remember, because that wasn’t what had happened at all. You’d went against his strict orders and got shot – only for the relationship to be mended by Rossi’s meddling. Is that what everyone thought, too? 

“I got shot in March” you say and she waves it away. 

“Yes, but he got so dramatic, and Derek told me how you two fought on the plane” 

She peers at you over her glasses. You remember that too, and your cheeks flush a deeper red – _god, what was it now, three fights in front of the entire squad?_ Why does that keep happening? 

“So, I just assumed you didn’t want to continue this and broke it off, which made him react that way.” 

“No, I didn’t-” she stares at you, eyes wide and you shake your head, rephrasing “I mean, I didn’t because we never – we didn’t. Not ever.” 

“I don’t know, I guess I thought since you’re always whispering around each other that it had to be something.” 

You glare at her, “we don’t whisper around each other. We talk, _like_ _normal people do_ ” 

She throws you a look, “yes you do. Whenever you’re by the coffee machine you’re like talking about something” 

You look up at the ceiling, and you know what she’s referring to – the chitchats that always occurred whenever you ran into him after spending all day in your respective desks, working. But they weren’t whispers, that was just you and Hotch, asking each other how’s it going, waiting for the coffee to be done. And maybe, admittedly sometimes, you’d drink it too hovering around each other, extending the time shared. She nods, thoughtfully. 

You huff, thinking back at that night in the hotel, “We never even kissed” 

Her grin returns in glory. 

“ _Even?_ So, you thought about it?” 

“No, no, no” god if the earth could open up and swallow you whole right now, it would be perfect timing. “no, that’s, I never, I don’t even -” 

Her eyes never leave yours. _Why can’t you form proper sentences right now?_

_“No, that’s not-”_ and you gather yourself, at last, and speak out like a normal human. 

“He’s my boss, _he’s Hotch_. I can’t. He doesn’t see me that way. And I don’t either.” 

And for good measure, you repeat once more. 

“He’s _our_ boss” 

She places a hand over your shoulder, calming your down. 

“I understand, now” and you worry she might too well, but she turns her attention to the screen. “sorry for making that assumption.” 

“It’s okay” you let out, relieved. Then you remember what this was all about. 

“Did you find Reus?” 

“No” she says, and you exhale, shoulders slouching too. Not believing you’d just agreed to the line of questioning for no reason. 

\- 

The team is back in an hour, you’d seen them pass by you, while you were at the coffee machine, as they followed Hotch wordlessly. They’d been locked in the conference room for what felt like hours. You can’t see from here what is going on, and you can’t even see Hotch’s silhouette through the pulled blinds as he stands tall giving them other orders to follow. So, you switch your tactics again, knowing them all too well. The first one alone is Spencer, his demand for coffee finally an advantage. You get to him while he’s making another one, after all the others had been dispatched to god knows where. He’s so unassuming and quiet, and you almost feel bad for cornering him. 

“Spence-“ 

He jumps at your sudden appearance. 

“Hey-“ his eyes search for any other faces, worried there might be a witness to your talk. 

_God,_ Hotch must have ordered them all to stay away from you _– what, was he scared you’d yell at them too?_

Not that you would. Of course. 

“Hey, making another coffee there?” you glance at his empty cup as coffee starts pouring in it, and you want to kick yourself. For an agent, you can’t even seem to question people the right way. 

“Yeah” he says, putting his hands in his pant pockets. His face relaxes, when he notes you’re not asking about the case. “You want one?” 

“No, thanks” and you feel guiltier than when you’d bartered for information earlier with Penelope. 

“Uh, Spence, I know you’re not supposed to-“ 

He keeps a poker face, but his eyebrows furrow. 

“-but I need to know, _please._ I can’t be left out just because I made a mistake back there with Hotch. I know I screwed up but, please, tell me.” 

He waits and you’re not sure either what you’re asking specifically. 

“Was Reus involved in the robbery back then?” 

And it’s the one question that crossed your mind time to time. Had you been in the right track with Revi? 

“Did he have anything to do with the shootout?” 

The coffee machine stops stirring, and his cup sits now full. You expect him to pack up and leave but he stills. 

“Yes. He was definitely one of the robbers” 

You nod, and wait. He doesn’t answer the second question. 

“I have to go” he says and you let him. Your mind is already heavy with the new information. 

What if Hotch had been right? What if Revi’s father had been involved with it, and you’d not pursued a criminal? What if Revi had let them both go, willingly? 

\- 

JJ finds you outside the building, leaning over the railings of the evacuation stairs, cigarette in hand, craving a smoke but not doing it yet. She makes her way to you, footsteps echoing over the steel structure, and mimics your stance as she looks out to the parking lot. 

“I’ve been searching for you. Thought you ran off on us and left to find Reus alone or something” 

You wince at that, and she bumps lightly your shoulder, granting you a small smile. 

“I wanted to know how you’re doing” her voice is gentler and you exhale. It hasn’t been long since you’ve known her, not like you had with the others, but she’d managed to make a small space in your heart too. And it’s maybe her honest blue eyes, or the softness around her that just makes you break. 

“I know what he did was wrong, JJ” 

Her eyes regard you with sympathy. 

“He should have told someone about Reus. Or about his father, at least. _I_ should have brought it up, even after being kicked out of the case from the local PD. I should have asked someone if they knew he was a suspect and made sure first. He wouldn’t have murdered more people if I did. And I- “your voice cracks but her hand finds yours, clasping it over the railing, giving her support silently. 

“-I didn’t because he passed away and everything felt so” you stare at the cigarette in your fingers, “ _meaningless”_

She squeezes your hand lightly and you close your eyes. It hadn’t felt this messy when he passed away – you think. Perhaps you don’t remember it but you’d never thought of yourself as wrecked as you feel now. Not when just a single word can submerge you back to the day when it all happened. Your guilt feels heavier, weighing your chest like a boulder. 

“It’s stupid and I hadn’t known it would come bite me back in the ass but here we are. I don’t even know why I’m working here anymore if I’m this bad at the job.” you raise your free hand at the last sentence. 

“Reus had nothing to do with this case.” 

“What?” you turn to her. “He didn’t?” 

“No, we don’t think so.” 

That should be enough to put your thoughts to rest, and it _should –_ yet it doesn’t _._

_“_ But we have another suspect and I need to ask you some questions. Paul Revi – we can’t find him, and he has no family or relatives.” 

You get it then, what Hotch’s order to her must have been. 

“You want to interrogate me.” 

Questioning loved ones is a crucial part of any investigation but this means she’d be asking you over Ronin Revi as well. She nods at that, confirming it. 

“Do we need to do it in the interrogation room?” 

It’s a weak rhetorical question, but you don’t think you can take Hotch’s face right now. Not when you hadn’t apologized yet. Especially because you remain convinced that he has to do it first. 

“Sorry” JJ says, “but if you want it can be just me. Nobody else in the room.” 

It’s comforting to know she’d traced back your source of hesitation but you knew Hotch will still be listening behind the mirror. And to you that’s worse. Not seeing his reactions is worse. 

“No” you shake your head, “I don’t mind who’s in the room. I’ll talk to whoever” 

Before you go in though, she loops her arms over you, pulling you in for a quick hug, steadying you. 

\-- 

“Okay, so you can start whenever you want.” JJ says. 

You try your best to keep yourself from glancing at the mirror in front of you, seeing yourself reflected, knowing the people you’d worked with all this time could be thinking the worst of you and your skills. Yet your eyes go to it unconsciously, at the same height and position you know Hotch would be – to the right of the door. He’s not inside the small black space you and JJ are in, but you still feel his presence. It’s all placebo – being on the other end of the interrogation already made you feel discomfort. You could steel any of your reactions but you knew they’d dissect them all the same. And you’re not the one being interrogated; you have to remind yourself that. This is about finding Revi’s father. This isn’t about you. You take a deep breath. 

JJ notices how long it’s taking you to speak so she asks first. 

“When did Revi tell you about Paul?” 

You frown already, memories of that day flashing before your eyes. 

“Three months after I started with Agent Aria’s unit. There was a case, a-” you remember to look her in the eyes, an indication you’re telling the truth, “-child abduction in Fort Worth. A thirteen-year-old boy had been abducted in front of his house at day time. Revi and I were ordered to stand back, track any sex offenders in the area and do background checks on whoever had been in contact with the family.” 

Her attention never wavers. 

“We didn’t have leads and time was running out. Then, another agent, Marquez, told us over coffee in the office how the father hadn’t been in their lives. Single mom and a boy. When they interrogated him, he said loosely that she’d taken his son away from him. That his ex-wife had been too careless, too ditzy, too scatterbrained” 

You remember Revi’s visceral reaction to the words – how he’d stormed back to his computer, you running after him, asking what was up. He’d started searching frantically medical records, psychologists, or therapists for the child. And he’d found them. 

“Revi knew from his wording that he’d been physically abusing both his wife and son. We caught the unsub because of him. Then he told me that same night how those were the exact words his own mother repeated like a parrot when his father was still in the picture.” 

You swallow thickly. Revi had been disheveled, the toll of the day heavy on him – it always happened whenever there were children’s cases and you didn’t know why. Not until you’d sat down beside him, offering him a cup of tea (him not being a coffee drinker and all) the rest of the office already empty. You’d stayed there in silence and patience, clock ticking by over you, until he’d gathered enough courage to blurt it all out in one breath. 

“That’s when he told me his father beat them up, for 11 years, for as long as he could remember, until he was 17 years old.” 

Jennifer nods, and she passes to the next question. 

“Did you ever meet Paul?” 

You shake your head. “No. Revi never brought him up unless it had something to do with a case.” 

“Did Ronin ever tell you about the activities his father conducted?” 

“Yes,” you answer, “he’d mentioned that he meddled with various criminal groups. The only specific one he mentioned hit petrol stations. His time away meant they didn’t see him much. It's how they got away – his mother and him.” 

“Did he ever resurface?” 

You shake your head. 

“The police caught him for grand theft and he was a repeat offender so he was jailed for 20 years.” 

“But Ronin talked to him” she says. “that’s how he got the intel over Reus.” 

“Yes,” you exhale, remembering you’d driven him to the prison yourself so he’d speak to his father. 

He’d been so anxious, so unlike his usual self – collected and always grinning. You’d given him a hug and he’d went in, body still shaking with nervous energy. 

“How did he do that?” 

“He talked to him in prison. He saw him again after 20 years, knowing it meant that he’d be back in his life when he was out.” 

“Were you in that meeting?” 

“No, I wasn’t. He just told me what had happened.” 

“Did he ever describe what he was like? What did Ronin look like after seeing his father?” 

You know that last question is for Revi, to prove his innocence. So, you answer that first. 

“He looked like his world had turned upside down.” That’s what you remember more than anything. You describe his body reactions next, knowing that what she wants to know and what they all want to examine. 

“He was shaking, and he couldn’t look me in the eyes. He was white like he’d seen a ghost but he looked determined. He was convinced that we’d get them and that it hadn’t been a waste of time to talk to Paul, like I’d thought” 

She catches onto your last words. 

“You didn’t want him to go?” 

You stand up straighter, fixing your posture. You go back to the unanswered question, ignoring this one. 

“Revi told me his father was impulsive, unpredictable and hot-blooded. That if he ever stared at him longer than necessary, he’d hurt him. He told me that his father was too much of dickhead to ever do anything on his own. He was a follower, not a leader.” 

JJ glances at the piece of paper in front of her, and lets out a breath too. You hadn’t thought about how this must be tiring for her too – interrogating a colleague. Then she goes off script. 

“Was your relationship with Ronin strictly professional?” 

“No.” 

And you don’t meet her eyes as you say it, but you look at the imaginary silhouette that could be Hotch behind the glass. That question must have been from him. 

“He was like a brother to me. My only family when I lived in Dallas.” 

\-- 

It has been an intense two days. The revelation that Revi had lied, the possibility that his father could be behind the recent break ins, and the interrogation – all played in a never-ending loop in your head. And you haven’t slept much. The guilt is eating at you, minute by minute, and you can’t bear it anymore. It’s 7 am and you storm into the bullpen, wanting to confront Hotch. You don’t care if he won’t speak to you anymore or if he'll never look at you the same again, just like he did the March you’d gotten shot at. 

“Woah, Saya” Derek’s the first face you see. He stands up from his desk, stopping you, physically barricading the way up to the stairs. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Where do you think?” you spit out, “To tell him a few words!” 

He grabs lightly your wrists, bringing your arms down. 

“I think you’ve said enough. Don’t you?” 

“Derek,” you scoff, “he’s treating me like a child just because I begged him not to consider a guy who got pierced by bullets as a suspect! I don’t think I’ve said enough, actually” 

“Saya”, he raises voice, knowing that’s the only thing you’ll respond to at the moment, “he’s doing his job as a unit chief. You just told us all that a federal agent withheld information from the police.” 

“I know what I said!” you back away from him, his entire energy making you retreat. 

“Yeah? You do? Because if you wouldn’t be this emotionally involved, you’d see how serious that is!” 

You put a hand to your forehead, dragging it over your face, his words hitting harder than anything else that has happened these days. 

“Don’t you think I realize that? I’m fucking wrecked here, Derek” your voice cracks. Tears fall down your eyes, hot and heavy scorching your cheeks, crying for the first time since you’d witnessed Revi give his last breath. And it’s conflicting, having to grieve someone again, knowing they’d disappointed you deeply. How were you supposed to ask him the reasoning behind his actions? How are you supposed to know what had been his last worries? 

“If I had known – if I-I'd known that, you know I wouldn’t have left a criminal prance around, Derek.” you search his eyes, wanting him to see the truth behind your words. Your vision is blurry behind the tears, and you wipe your sleeve at them, wanting to rid them. 

“I know” he says, his voice low and gentle. He wraps you in a hug, hands smoothing down your hair. 

“I don’t agree with Hotch’s decision of leaving you out of the investigation.” he whispers, and you sniff above his shoulder. 

“You know the case better than any of us and we could use your perspective.” 

You nod against him, and you hate yourself for reading through his words, not able to shut down the profiler in you. Even when your friend is offering you comfort. 

“Thanks, Derek” 

You retract yourself from his arms and he nods, face serious again. 

\--- 

When it’s noon, you find your way up to Hotch’s office. He entered not minutes ago, looking for something. You can see his figure through the blinds of his office – scrambling through papers and documents, standing up behind his desk. You knock lightly on the open door but don’t wait for his approval to enter. 

“I just forgot something, Reid”, he says without looking up. His desk is a mess, a thousand papers opened up over it, pens and pencils falling to the floor as his hands shuffle the documents around. 

“I’m not Reid” you say, and he looks up sharply. 

His face turns back into that usual frown, and you push further into the office. 

“I don’t have time for this” he snaps, raising a palm towards you, as if he can physically keep you away from him.

You bite mercilessly at your lower lip and walk before his desk, refusing to get out. He’s going to snap again and this time maybe your relationship will never go back to what it was. But you have to try to mend it yourself – there's no David Rossi this time, breaking into Hotch’s car to destroy the battery or whatever. You look at him – after two whole days of avoiding you, his undereye circles have gotten deeper, the wrinkles in his forehead wider, and he looks like he hasn’t eaten in forever. He seems about as miserable as you feel. If not more. 

“I don’t intend to keep you from your work” 

He pauses then, and you can’t help but wonder - had he lost all respect for you, because of what you’d said at him? Did he think of you incompetent and impulsive? Why hadn’t he fired you yet? He still doesn’t speak so you take advantage of it. 

“I just need 30 seconds. That’s all I ask for” 

He leaves the papers over his desk, and you take a deep breath, preparing yourself emotionally for him to refute. 

“30 seconds” he repeats and you exhale, relieved. 

“Hotch -” His eyes close at the sound of his name on your lips, and you stop because even though you’d thought about talking to him, you hadn’t planned thus far. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You don’t know what else to say, after that, and a part of you wants to desperately reach out. You'd attacked him just because you couldn't do it to Revi. You'd dumped on him all of your anger towards Revi and he hadn't deserved it. You realize now, looking into his eyes, how incredibly unfair you'd been, harboring all your frustrations against him. He looks down at the papers, not bearing the sight of you any longer. And you wing it, as you push further, standing now as close to him as you can be, with only his desk and chair between the two of you. You drop all the formalities and speak to him as a friend instead. 

“I know you’re doing your job and I over reacted. I was hurt and disappointed that Revi had kept this from me. From the entire police force.” 

He looks back up, meeting your gaze. 

“And I felt so goddamn stupid for not having thought of Reus during all this time. When Revi died, I thought it was over.” 

Your eyes are begging him to be the bigger person – to see the honesty in them, and put himself in your shoes. 

“He was my family for five years, Hotch. I had been cast into a foreign territory with nobody so I clang into him.” 

He can’t blame you for doing the humane thing and finding connection. 

“I was depressed for a whole year after the shootout. I couldn’t think of the case, I couldn’t think of Reus. Or anything else. If I did, I’d remember how cowardly I’d been, hiding behind a column because I knew that they were going to shoot at us once inside” 

His face falls at your words. You’d never admitted it before – that you’d witnessed it, that you’d been there to watch it all. 

“And I wish I could ask him. I wish I could magically talk to him and ask him why he made that decision, why he left out _Reus_ , but I can’t. So, I’m left here hating a dead person because they can’t answer me.” 

You take a step back, because if he says something hurtful you want a quick way out. But he doesn’t. He only looks at you. You say then what you’d extracted from Derek’s words. 

“Reus is involved somehow” Without him knowing you can read his reactions – his lips quivering slightly, his only tell. 

“I know the case, Hotch. Only Revi, Aria and I had been consulting for it. Nobody else, and you can’t ask Aria.” 

Not when she’s suspended. 

“I want to help.” He moves then, wanting to speak but you don’t allow him just yet. You know you’ve already pushed your 30-second limit and he lets you continue. 

“I will do whatever you tell me to without any complaints or a single word. But I don’t want to be a sitting duck. You can use me, Hotch. _Please_.” 

You think he’s going to shake his head, yell at you, call you insubordinate and maybe even overdramatic over your little speech. But he nods. A single slow nod, that you think it doesn’t even count, since it looks more like an unconscious movement. 

“Fine” he says then, voice low. 

The weight on your chest is lifted at once, and you breathe out. You want to smile at him, but you’re still worried over what your relationship is supposed to be now. He can’t possibly be fine with you having caused a scene not long ago and blaming him over nothing.

“Do you have your go-bag?” 

The question throws you off. He picks up several documents over his desk. 

“What?” 

“If you’re not out in 3 minutes we’re leaving” 

And he leaves you standing there baffled, and walks out of his office. You practically run after him, stopping only to grab the bag underneath your desk. You think that's it; that it's all professional and formal from now on, yet he holds the elevator open for you to rush inside. 

\-- 


	10. Where is my mind? Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II  
> Some answers are revealed to you in unexpected ways but at least you are back to the case, helping the team.  
> And you're closer to the unsub that you'd previously thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have to study for finals but here i am not doin it :)  
> (also idk why i write so much honestly, I apologize guys)  
> Loads of angst and hurt but it will not be a long wait.

When you climb into the plane right after Hotch, the others do not even try to conceal their surprise, which about makes the situation worse. But you don’t let it get to you. It’s been two days that you hadn’t been involved in the case, and you fear it’s too late to get briefed again. You plant yourself in the free seat in front of Hotch, worried that if you’re too far, you will be left out again. 

“Kuroki is back in” he simply says to the others, face stern. Emily on his side glances at you and offers a small smile. “She’s the only who knows the case from back then.” 

When the seatbelt signs turn off, everyone huddles close to one another ready to share their thoughts in order to make a plan of action. Hotch is the first to speak. 

“In the 2000s I was asked to consult for a case by Agent Aria – a series of burglaries in New York that she was convinced were by the same group in Dallas. She didn’t have any evidence but she was convinced that the behaviors in both cities were the same – she just needed my confirmation so she could go ahead and request a task force.” 

He opens the folder - the same one you realize that he’d been searching for in his office and carried back here - over the table, and turns it to everyone else. 

“There were three suspects – Oliver Cook, Elijah Luka, both young and physically fit to carry the acts, and an older unsub that we couldn’t identify. We had a witness describe him and a sketch.” 

He flips to the middle of the folder, taking out a piece of paper with the drawing of the face of a late 40 years old man, deep-set eyes, strong jawline and big head of blonde hair – all hints of resemblance to Ronin, and you’d recognize that face everywhere after you’d searched him yourself in the system. That’s Paul Revi. You look at Hotch – _he thinks th_ _e_ _unsub_ _’s_ _Paul_ _Revi_ _?_

But Rossi asks before you do. 

“You think that is Paul Revi?” 

Hotch nods. 

“We thought he was the planner and the one who came up with the locations. But he wasn’t.” 

Reid frowns. He’s already read the entire document and digested the information. 

“He’s too disorganized to be able to pull these off” He finishes for Hotch, who in turn confirms. 

“But all other signs pointed that this was a 3-men job, and that two of them had to be Cook and Luka. They confessed to it, but they never gave the name of their partner.” 

“So, we are going to talk to them in prison?” you ask, speaking for the first time before them all since Monday. 

Hotch nods, “If this is what we assumed – that the unsub was a member of the bank heists, hunting the remaining ones, then he’s specifically doing it to send a message to Reus.” 

“Leaving the body at his house was the clearest way to threaten him” Prentiss says. 

“And he’ll be going after Paul Revi next” 

His eyes trails over the others as he gives them their respective duties. 

“Reid and I will head to the prison. JJ and Morgan to the crime scene in New York, and Prentiss – I want you to talk to the families with Rossi.” 

Then you realize he hasn’t given you a specific responsibility yet and you look down at the document, not wanting the others to arrive at the same conclusion as you. 

“Kuroki-“his voice is soft, different than all the other times he’s been addressing you since this week started. “You should speak with the police chief in New York.” 

You nod, feeling your heart sink – he wants you to confront the same people Revi had withheld information from. 

“You need to explain the situation to the detectives there. See if they have any information on Reus.” 

That makes you pause. 

“You think Reus was involved with Paul?” 

But Reid is the one to answer you. 

“We think Jonathan Reus is Paul’s son” 

\--- 

Sitting down in the office of the police chief – a man in his late 30s, with nobody else from your team around, you hadn’t had time to dwell on Reid’s last words to you. You hadn’t even thought of the possibility and it still doesn’t make sense. How could Revi keep something so big from you, if he even knew about it? The police chief seems short-tempered, you catch it from the way he can’t seem to not interrupt you while speaking longer than 10 seconds, and from his constant fidgeting. He drops the pen once again over the table – having finished another monologue over how important the job their department has been doing throughout his years has been for the state. You deduce it’s rehearsed – he’d spoken on the phone with Hotch and he’d expected to meet him first and not you. 

“I understand that, Detective Parker”, you repeat for what feels like the thousandth time. “And I think SSA Hotchner would be happy to hear that too.” 

He gives you a proud grin at that as he leans back. 

“As I said, I would appreciate any records you have on Jonathan Reus, whose file is sealed.” 

There’s a flicker of recognition passing through his eyes but he won’t budge. You switch tactics, stealing one from JJ’s book. Leaning across the table you plant both elbows over the glass surface, cool against your exposed skin, and grab at your ponytail in the back, bringing it to your side – finger rolling strands of it as your eyes stay on him. The man is single – no ring finger on his left hand, no photos in his desk of possible partners, only pics of a German shepherd and him fishing. And you’d caught the way his eyes had dropped to your cleavage as soon as you’d taken your leather jacket off when you’d sat down. It wasn’t much to go on but it’s a risk you have to take, for the case’s sake. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, as if knowing what you’re doing. So, you bat your eyelashes instead. Would he react to praise or degradation – that's still a mystery. 

“I’ve heard many stories about this department while at the FBI.” you’d done your homework on him on the plane ride here thanks to Garcia, who’d granted you anything on the man’s career. “Your case in 2007, the bust of car thefts in the Bronx? Very impressive.” 

His left eyebrow cocks up, and there’s the smallest hint of a smile, so you go overboard. 

“I think the bureau could learn something from your tactics in the field.” 

He reacts fast, pushing his chair closer to the table, and leans over the table too. His face is significantly closer and you smell the pungent garlicky breath of his mouth, and you try not to flinch. The hairs of his moustache are dirty with leftover food, you assume, and there’s sweat dripping down his neck. You fight the urge that tells you to put some distance between. You drop your voice a few octaves lower, and your eyes drop to his hands, palms spread over the table, fingertips stretching for your elbows. 

“And from you, specifically” 

But you don’t give him what he wants – you pull back sharply, and it affects him immediately. His pupils are dilated already, and you use his tireless focus on you as an advantage. 

“There was a case here 3 years ago that Agent Hotchner mentioned to you on the phone.” 

He nods, absent-mindedly. 

“ _He_ couldn’t catch the third partner” you say, and it tires you trying to keep this façade, but it can’t be harder from what Hotch is doing, while investigating prisoners. And that conviction alone gives you enough strength to push through. “Nor did Agent Revi, a year ago from then, who let Jonathan Reus free.” 

You lean close, but don’t touch the table. 

“If you ask me, I think these FBI men can’t do anything right.” 

He lets out a small laugh and your fake smile seems more like a grimace. But he can’t tell the difference. 

“That’s why I _need_ your help. So, what do you think? May I take a look at those files, Detective Parker?” 

The man nods not even waiting for you to finish. When you stand up, he follows close by. 

“I will send those files in the conference room we prepared for your team” he says, opening the door of his office, letting you pass through first. Mission accomplished. 

You brush your fingers over his hand on the door handle, but don’t linger. “Thank you.” 

\--- 

Luckily, Detective Parker is a chief so his time to hover annoyingly around you is extremely limited. But you do find something useful on Reus through the files the department gives you, at least. Apart from all related fingerprint and palmprint cards, booking photos, and DNA samples that you forward to Garcia, you also find sealed birth records. 

“Yes, talk your magic to me, Garcia. What did you find?” you greet as soon as you answer her call. Prentiss and Rossi take their seat in the round table, as you put the phone on speaker. 

“Reus was a real messy boy” 

Rossi throws you a look. 

“How messy?” 

“He has sealed juvenile records too, and he spent a really good chunk of his childhood in juvie – 3 whole years from 7 to 10 years old.” 

“What for?” 

“I’m not finished-” she says loudly into the speaker, so you stop asking. “From animal cruelty to arson, he’s dabbled into everything. He even threatened to beat up fellow teens – just overall a whole load of complaints for just one guy.” 

“Those all point to disorganized behavior” Rossi says. 

"Correct, and he has class B felony – robbery and assault with dangerous weapon. The one who sealed his record is a federal judge- and oh, my god-” her voice falls and you ask. 

“what, Garcia?” 

More typing is heard in the background. 

“The man was found dead two weeks ago in his apartment.” 

Prentiss looks your way. “Right before the first kill” 

“This unsub is hunting down Reus” Rossi states. 

“And guys,” there’s a small ring in the background,” I’ve got a hit on paternity. Paul Revi is his father.” 

\--- 

You’d sworn to yourself that you’d keep your own feelings out of the equation. It is the only way this can work without you wrecking yourself further, but when you get your cup of coffee from the small coffee pot of the police department you can’t help but stand there. Tucked in the small kitchen, a space 2x2m that is well-hidden corner as others rush past, you feel that same confusing guilt resurface, warm as the cup of brown liquid in your hands. You don’t have to read the material Garcia had forwarded to know that Paul Revi and Reus had been in the same prison, and that his son had spoken passionately over his aspirations once out. That’s how Ronin must have come to know – that's what Paul had told him. Not wanting to speak after seeing his father, and all of his reactions once out the prison – they had to be because Paul had told him he had a brother. 

“Hey” Emily shakes you out of your reverie, standing in the small hall leading to the corner-kitchen. “Hotch and Reid are back. I thought you’d want to hear what they have to say.” 

You nod, your mind partially stuck on Revi still. You follow her back into the conference room and Hotch’s eyes find you immediately. He’s standing before the board, Reid at his side, with a huge map of New York underneath his hands as he works in pinning various small colored notes. Hotch watches you sit down and down the macchiato like a shot. He waits and you give him a nod as acknowledgement to his presence, and a much-needed reassurance for him that you’re doing fine. 

“Luka and Cook did not contradict us when we said their third partner was the same age as them – and when we showed a photo of Paul Revi there was no reaction. They did not know him.” 

“But there was someone else involved in the NYC case back then that sounded like our unsub” Reid continues. He opens his palm wide and presses his index finger to the area of Bronx. 

“The first attempt they made, an apartment complex in SoHo where the family was brutally murdered and robbed. It wasn’t filed as their work because everything that they stole was found in a warehouse in the Bronx.” He turns to stare at the rest of the room. 

“Whoever committed those murders was kicked out of the team and they cleaned up their act. They became more meticulous, as per Reus’s orders.” 

“Do we have a suspect?” JJ asks. “and why is he going against Reus now when he had all this time?” 

“I think we have an answer to that too” Reid says, and he motions to the screen where Garcia nods. 

“Paul Revi died August 6th in a car accident” Her face is replaced by images of the newspaper clippings – Two dead on impact in the highway – Lorry driver convicted of DUI. Then a recent image of Paul Revi takes up the screen – sporting a buzzcut and full beard hiding his face. 

“I was able to find this only now because his name was never mentioned. He was cremated under another name: Paul Saunders – Jonathan’s mother’s maiden name.” 

“That was the trigger” Morgan says, “and being kicked out of the team must have been his stressor. His endgame is going to be Reus.” 

“And if he did the arrangements of Paul’s death, then he’s closer than we thought.” Rossi says. 

\-- 

Bordering to day number four, you stay close to the team, locked in the conference room – also as a way to avoid Detective Parker, who always seemed to smell when you were alone. 

“How did Reus find Parker and Cook?” Morgan asks – he’s got his back hunched over a set of papers, and when he looks up to Reid scribbling over the board, the latter shakes his head. 

“There was no apparent connection between either of them.” JJ says, “Reus was the reason these men found each other” 

“Reus has that much charisma, then?” Morgan asks, his voice painted in doubt. “This guy was what, early twenties and with big goals, having faced a hard childhood and still manages to string a team together to commit these burglaries effortlessly?” He scoffs. “I don’t believe that” 

A wild thought sprouts in your head. 

“What if that wasn’t his first attempt?” 

They turn to look to you, cross-legged in your own chair, and wild-eyed. 

“He’s not disorganized” you say, looking to nobody in particular, “This guy had a messy life – he tortured animals, burned a few buildings, threatened people, and then theft and assault – he has been training for this, his whole life” 

Reid snaps his fingers at you and you look up. 

“He’s been trying to figure out what works best for him.” He says.

You nod, and he matches your energy – his writing gets faster and it looks like nothing over the board, too quick and wide to even look like actual letters stringed together. He underlines what you think is the first word. 

“He sealed birth records. Then juvenile records. And later, criminal records.” 

You bring yourself up, your joints cracking with the sudden movement of your limbs after staying put for hours. 

“Then dumping the items that they collected in the first burglary, which did not go according to plan” Reid continues your train of thought, “He wants only the best work to show up in his record.” 

“But whatever does not fit his perfect image he has concealed” you say, now standing where Reid is, both staring at one another crazily – finally the first lead you’ve had since being in New York. 

“The juvie” Prentiss says, “We need to see who was in there with him. The complaints first.” 

Morgan dials Garcia, who responds in seconds. 

“Hey baby girl, we need you to look into the juvie records. Whoever was in with Reus at the same time” 

“He must be significantly younger” Reid adds, “the murders in SoHo were not premeditated. They were rushed and impulsive.” 

Garcia’s typing is loud in the background. 

“Okay, guys I’m pushing full-speed ahead but this juvie has a whole load of material against Reus specifically.” 

Hotch speaks up, “That was his testing ground” 

“He had to be convicted” you say meekly, all dots connecting in your mind, “he probably was in at the same time with Reus and Paul” 

Rossi frowns at you. “Why do you think?” 

“He was caught” you realize then that was how they got rid of him – Reus had a lot to not be cast into prison the same way as Cook and Luka. But he was a clean slate. The unsub had to have ended up in prison for a misdemeanor or something else unrelated to the SoHo murders and that’s how he never confessed against them. 

“He must have been harboring hatred for Reus during all this time” 

“Holy guacamole-y" Garcia exhales, “I have a hit.” 

Hotch stands from his seat, pushing his chair behind him with force “Who is it, Garcia?” 

“George Larousse” she says, “he was in the same juvie as Reus for assault, vandalism and petty theft. He’s 5 years younger, and he was sent to prison for DUI for one year, then for tax evasion. He’s working as a stocker for painting supplies at a company in Queens” 

“Garcia-” Hotch’s voice grows louder, but she cuts him off. Everyone is already up and in motion – you go directly for your jacket, grabbing it from the back of your chair. 

“I’ve sent both work and home addresses to your GPS” 

“Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi head to his home. The rest with me to his work address.” 

Everyone reacts at once, not waiting further instructions. 

\--- 

That is how you make it to the warehouses of Alpine, a large industrial painting corporation, situated in Red Hook, with JJ, Reid and Hotch. He stops you all before going in. 

“Reid and JJ, take the back, we’ll take the front. We make a silent entrance.” 

They nod and you watch them disappear in the dark, following an alleyway to the back of the building, to seal all exits. You risk a glance at Hotch – with the Kevlar vest on and gun and flashlight drawn up, he’s agile and silent at getting to the front doors of the building. You trail behind and he holds a hand up, and you hold your breath. He kicks his elbow over the glass of the door, breaking it open, and pushes through until his arm is clean to the other side. He leans in and opens the door. There’s no blaring alarms and no electricity in the building – and he notes it too. 

Then Morgan’s voice rushes through the comms. 

“The house is clear” 

“There’s noise on the second floor” JJ says next and adrenaline rushes through your blood. 

You follow behind Hotch, gun drawn up, checking left and right, and whatever room or open space he shows his back to, covering him. 

“Basement clear” Reid says. 

Hotch stops in front of the large glass staircase, and looks at you. 

“Ground floor clear” you say. 

Hotch moves up and you trail behind close by, never leaving him. When you make it up the stairs, you both freeze, hearing the same noises JJ and Reid must have noted from the back. He takes the left and you the right, clearing rooms while getting closer to the noise, which starts sounding more and more like chatter. 

“-you never thought of me” a man’s voice says, sounding more like a whine. You inch closer, taking a last look at Hotch all the way to the other side, who is nearing the same exposition room as you. It is the only room that is not dark – low and white colors play the shadows of two figures in the pavement, light source on the floor between them. 

“You cast me out. You left me out!” that same man says and you recognize distinctly the noise of a gun cocking. 

“I didn’t leave you out, George”, another man speaks this time, and his voice does not reflect the same situation he is in. His voice lacks interest and sounds annoyed, like he’s wasting precious time. That has to be Reus, you think. George Larousse speaks again. 

“You did! You told me I was irreplaceable, that once we did things your way, we’d do them mine!” 

“Yes, and who fucked up the order of that?” 

Hotch voice rushes through your earmuff, “Second floor, they’re here”. 

“You couldn’t even follow a simple instruction, George. What was I supposed to do? _Pardon you?”_

The coldness of Reus’ voice sends a shiver down your spine. This man was everything you’d drawn out from the profile - patient, skilled and a sociopath. 

“I would have changed! I knew I made a mistake” 

Larousse had been the one hunting for Reus this entire time, but he seemed the most distraught out of both of them. With your back to the wall, you look in, unable to hold back your curiosity any longer. The two men stand before one another and Larousse is the only one with a gun. He has it pointed to Reus, but his hand shakes, and he’s seemingly frozen before him. You look at the other man at last, and you stop dead in your tracks. You’d seen photos of him from the sealed records –as a child with short black hair, then in prison with a buzzcut, but you never imagined he’d look so similar to Ronin Revi. 

Curly, strawberry-blonde hair arrive to his collarbones, and he has a sharp jawline and blue eyes. He’s grown a beard just like Revi had that last month before he’d passed, and they look the exact same – tall and imposing. He’s heavier than Revi and not as easy on the eyes as he’d been, but the resemblance is still there and you can’t help it. Your mind is playing tricks at you. You’re drawn to him like a moth to a flame and you can’t stop yourself. 

“Revi?” Your voice is a whisper even to your own ears, too quiet to be heard in the large space and over their discussion. But your foot hits a paint bucket on your left and they turn to you, at the same time as Hotch whispers “Saya-”. 

Larousse is first, his gun following with, and you see it turn to point to you, to the source of noise. 

“Who the fuck-” His eyes go wide when he sees you, eyes dropping to the big letters on your vest. Then you hear Hotch, loud as thunder. 

“FBI! Drop your gun!” 

You remember on instinct to point yours to him, and you see the flash of it – your reaction not as quick as Larousse’s. Then a shot rings through the entire building, the glass windows reflecting the noise. Hotch gets to him first, shooting him in the torso before he shoots you. His gun drops to the ground as does he. Then adrenaline kicks in again, when you see Reus move. He leaves the room in wide quick steps, running into the hall. 

“Kuroki!” Hotch yells behind you and you blank out the calls of Reid and JJ too on the comms or in the exposition hall – you can’t tell where they originate from. Your mind is set only on Reus. He takes you up and up, until you find yourself kicking through a door and on the roof of the building. He has nowhere to go, you think, and your legs cannot run anymore. So, you aim your gun, shooting at his left, and he halts. 

“Stop, or I will shoot!” You halt too, aiming at his head. He raises his hands up, and turns around slowly. 

There’s only the light of the full moon that allows you to see him and his face. But the distance is still great for you to see him properly, so you walk, stepping slowly towards him, your aim on him unchanged. 

“If you so move an inch, I swear to God I will blow your fucking brains out.” 

There are five steps between you and his face is clearer. Unlike Revi, he has freckles, small blonde spots covering intensely his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He’s more toned and heavy weight than he had ever been, muscles showing from the way his t-shirt hugs his biceps. The blue in his eyes is darker too but everything else, even his aura feels distinctly like - 

“Ronin” he says, flashing you a smile, taking you aback. 

“What?” 

“You called me Ronin” 

You can’t speak. That can’t be possible, you couldn’t have called this stranger by _his_ name. 

“Shut up” but it comes out as less than an order. 

“Were you his girlfriend?” 

You recoil at his words – his voice sounding nothing like the comforting tone of Ronin’s. His eyes trace your figure, moving down and then up again, and you can’t flinch – not when you know he’s good at reading people. 

“No. Can't be.” he says, “my half-brother was too much of a coward to do anything properly. He just pushed people away. Did he say the same to you too-” he stares intently at you, “did he tell you that he wasn’t ready for a relationship?” 

“Shut up” you say, your voice now harsher. 

“A coworker then”, he says, switching fluently to another approach, and you can easily see how he’d gotten to assemble people together and work for him with not much convincing. “But your relationship couldn’t have been _only_ professional.” 

“I thought I told you to shut your mouth” 

He makes a noise with his tongue and shakes his head, “No, I’m wrong again, aren’t I?” 

He takes a leap forward – a step towards you and you lower your gun, aiming it directly between his eyebrows, unflinching. 

“Don’t test me” 

“I’m not” he says, and his tone of voice is lower, making it seem softer to your ears. “But don’t blame me for knowing exactly what my brother’s type is.” 

Your hold on the gun wavers at that, but you’re quick at catching it, and he doesn’t note it either. 

“Strong women were his type – anything that was the opposite of him: weak, emotional, miserable, lame and utterly _pathetic_.” He sees the effects that last words leaves on you – and he repeats it again. 

“Ronin was pathetic” 

“Keep his name out of your mouth, or I will-” 

“Blow my brains out, yes” he rolls his eyes, and his wrists too, and you cock your gun, wanting him to test you, to just throw another innocuous word only so you can shoot him and end this. 

“But I don’t think you will.” 

“I won’t?” you ask. “I’m the one with a gun here” 

“You won’t do it unless I put your life at risk. All federal agents are the same – they follow rules. And you do too. You are a goody two shoes.” 

And he’s figured you out. Of course he has. The hesitation is written all over your face, and not just because you can’t shoot someone who looks so similar to Revi, but also because you’re curious. And that’s the only thing killing you right now. 

“And you want to know -” he starts, and you don’t know when he’s taken a step closer, “why Ronin hid me. Your brilliant mind is wrecking itself over and over again-” his eyes drop to your chest, noting the loud breaths you’re taking, “wondering why Ronin didn’t give me up. And I have all the answers to your heart’s deepest desires.” 

And you have to ask – you _have to_ voice your thoughts aloud. 

“Why didn’t he?” 

“Was he involved? That’s right, isn’t it? -” his hands at the sides of his head are lower, fingers not as straight and stretched as before, and he reads your mind “that’s what you _really_ want to know.” 

You nod, and there’s an easy smirk on his lips. 

“You know, when my brother hesitated to achieve his last attempt at a family unit, I thought it was because he was dedicated to the job. A federal agent! From our little _fucked-up_ family. That’s commendable.” He takes a step closer and your mind is screaming at you to react – to do something. But you can’t move, like your feet are stuck in concrete. 

“But then, I realize now, it must have been because of you – his little _friend”_

Bile rises up your throat at his words, and the way he looks at you. 

“He really messed up bad, leaving me out of it, don’t you think?” He’s standing before you, your gun touches his front and he brings a hand up, and you flinch. You blink and there’s fresh tears in your eyes that you can’t fathom where they’ve come from. 

“He completely destroyed the memory you had of him. That’s _very wrong_ ” 

He looks down at you – being as tall as Ronin your head reaches the top of his chest. 

“I’m sorry he did that to you” he says, but his voice conveys no empathy, no regret or remorse. His knuckles brush light against your cheek and a shiver passes through your body. 

“Kuroki!” a loud bang erupts from behind you, Hotch’s booming voice penetrating through the atmosphere, shaking you out of your trance. And you react – you push yourself away from him, using Reus’ body as a reflective sounding board to throw yourself to your knees on the ground, before he can grab you. You slip through his fingers but your gun doesn’t. 

Hotch shoots as soon as he sees you out of the line of sight, and Reus retreats, shooting back. Hotch’s bullets don’t get him, as he runs after him. You scramble on your hands and knees, moving as fast as you can to avoid the line of fire, knowing Hotch will not respond the same way until you’re out of sight. Your shoulders and back hit around barrels and wooden boxes, being the only added noise to the shootout. That catches Reus’ attention as he turns to aim at you. You can’t see anything that is going on, and you crouch on the floor, hiding behind an air conditioning unit. You look out and Reus’ face is the first thing you see – your own gun pointed at you in his expert hands. You see the bullet leave the barrel of the gun in slow motion but you can’t make yourself move. 

“Saya! No-!” 

A heavy weight hits your chest, pressing you flat into the ground making you one with it. A loud, pained grunt leaves your mouth, your lungs squeezed together from the impact, the back of your head slamming against the concrete of the floor. You see stars in your vision. For a beat everything goes black. There are distant shouts, from far away, coming from another universe. And bullets too, but you think you imagine them. Someone’s calling out Hotch’s name. His _first name._ Your brain feels like scrambled eggs. _Where is Hotch? Why won’t he answer when being called?_ He’s never been one to not respond. You blink your eyes open and the stars in your vision stop spinning. It's just open sky – beautiful, dark and intense. You breathe in but your lungs struggle to be filled with oxygen and you don’t know why. 

“Hotch!” A cry comes from your left that you barely register as Reid’s voice. “We need an ambulance now!” 

You bring your arms up and it’s harder than you could have ever imagined – they feel heavy as a stone and you want to touch your chest and move the boulder that sits over it. Then lavender and a smell that you recognize only as Hotch’s, fills your senses at once. Your hand touch tentatively to what lays over you, keeping you firm to the ground. You feel his body over yours, limp and unmoving and tears prickle at your eyes. 

“Hotch?” Reid cries again and he sits at your left, “please say something” 

You look down at him, recognizing his head – the top of his hair and you brush your fingers over it, trying to feel for any bullet wounds, holding your breath the entire time. But there’s nothing, and the relief that washes over you is premature. You sink your fingers in the softness of his hair, and it feels wrong touching him like this – not without having him meet your eyes first. 

“Please, please -” you don’t hear yourself chanting low, desperately begging him to stand up, to rise and scold you, “Hotch, please-” but he’s too heavy and you can’t move him yourself and you don’t want to. His body is _so hot, so warm over you_ , and that has to be a good sign. That has to be a sign that he’s not gone, that he’s not dead. Your other arm hooks around his back, rubbing from his lower back upwards – palming through every inch of it in order to find any other bullet wounds, anything at all. And it feels like forever, until your hand finds his right shoulder, meeting hot liquid sticking to his clothes. But before you can say anything – he's ripped away from you. The EMT’s lift him up and place him softly into a stretcher on his back. You sit up, feeling the cold loss of his body freezing you at once. 

“Hotch, no-", a guttural sound comes out of your mouth. He can't be dead. This can't be the last time you touch him.

"Please don’t take him away, no – _please-_ " your voice sounds like a shrill, foreign to you.

But your vision blacks out again as soon as you stand up, your body giving out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope me trying to write a case and action sequences made sense :'( because I felt really out of my element.  
> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. The next one will be comforting :)


	11. It'll pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath. You wake up in the hospital and find comfort in the people around you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just picture Emily Gilmore as the mother for this thnx

The first thing you see when opening your eyes is blinding white, strangely calming and comforting, lulling you back to sleep again. Then in a flash, everything comes rushing back – Larousse, Reus and Detective Parker too. The first sound out of your mouth is his name. 

“ _Hotch”_ you exhale, your voice throaty and painful. You’re panting, unable to fill your lungs with oxygen again and you still remember – the weight of his body over yours, limp and motionless. Your throat closes in turn, and you feel a panic attack rising. Loud beeping goes off in the background. Warm hands clasp yours. 

“Hey, _birdie”_ the soft voice brings you back, and you focus on your breathing as she recites over and over - “ _you’re okay. You’re okay. Everything is okay. We are all okay_ ” 

You turn your head to your right, noting Penelope by your side. She brushes her lips over your fingers and sits back down. 

“I’m here. We are all here. Everyone is okay, Saya” her gentle touch and looks work better at calming you down than any pill ever could. 

“Where am I?” you croak, and the affection she regards you with makes your eyes teary again. 

“You’re in the hospital” 

You nod and you try not to let your mind go to Hotch again – not when your entire body reacts in uncontrollable ways. But you can’t. 

“Is he-” your voice cracks, your eyes pleading her, “ _please, is he alive?”_ A tear streams down your face all the way to your mouth, salt lingering there. She catches the next one with her thumb, nodding. 

“He’s more than fine. It was just a bullet on his right shoulder” 

You swallow but the lump on your throat remains there, stubbornly. 

“He had to go into surgery but he’s doing okay” 

Your mind blanks at the word _surgery_ and your body shoots up, as you sit up immediately. 

“I _need_ to see him” 

A painful throbbing rises from the back of your head, and air leaves your lungs again. The lights ahead becomes too much and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Oh, honey, that’s not a good idea. You have a concussion.” 

You let your body fall backwards on the bed again and she brushes her hands over your knuckles and wrists. You remember then that the last time you spoke with her, she was in Quantico. 

“When did you arrive here?” 

“Two days ago,” she says. You glance around the room, taking in your surroundings. The room is small – one other chair beside hers that remains empty and no other sign of life. You taste bitter in your mouth – had they all refused to see you, after you’d put yourself in danger, after you’d risked Hotch’s life too? Penelope must see your reaction because she speaks fast. A small smile painted on her face. 

“I told them to head back to the hotel. They all stank so I told them to take showers. We’re doing shifts between yours and Hotch’s room” 

_That is so incredibly sweet._

“Shifts?” you repeat meekly. 

“Emily and Derek were a mess by your bed. Always crying and leaving snot over your sheets. Had to drag them out because it was so damn unsanitary.” 

You try to crack a laugh but it sounds like nothing. 

“And don’t let me get started on David and Spence” she says, sporting now a grin, “Spencer kept circling around, making coffee and placing them on your counter.” 

She bops her head to your left and you look to where she points – several empty disposable coffee cups that could be in the twenties sit over the small counter, no free space leftover on the surface. 

“I had to dump the coffee because who leaves steaming hot liquid near someone’s head while they sleep?” 

Your laugh resembles more a laugh now, and you already miss Spencer’s face, and his little nose scrunch as he focuses too hard on something. 

“David kept praying over your head like he was performing an exorcism” she says and that makes you smile wide. “Started creeping me out after a while” 

Your mind is full of thoughts of Hotch though, and she can sense it too. 

“He’s never left his side” she says and you feel better at that. 

“What else happened?” 

She smiles brilliantly – the only way she knows how. 

“JJ yelled at a bunch of nurses and doctors and she switched both your and Hotch’s pillows for bigger and fluffier ones. Just completely smothering you both to sleep.” 

A painful thought crosses your mind then. 

“Reus” you say and her expression changes just as fast. “Is he-” 

“He ran away amongst all the commotion.” 

You curse under your breath. 

“We tried to trace him these last two days and I have an alarm set up if he ever crosses the country. We will know, Saya. He’s not getting away with this” 

No, he’s not. Not if you have anything to do with it. 

\-- 

Your mother is next at the side of your bed. You note her as soon as you hear her shrilling voice in the ward – yelling orders at the nurses to get you a larger room, a more luxurious set of dishes for your meals, and even as she insists to change your sheets onto your personal ones, though you hadn’t stayed at her house in years. When she enters your small little room, her face is shocked seeing five people crowding over your bed – Spencer, Emily, JJ, Derek and Penelope. She comes in and goes out. Does the same and then hovers before the door, staring at the room’s number. 

“Mother” you call out and she pipes up, looking around to where you are. As if you wouldn’t be in the only bed in the room. 

“Saya!” she lets out and everyone shuffles awkwardly around to make room for her until she reaches your side. Then her eyes look at you wildly, seeing your posture. You’re sitting up, a cup of tea in hand, leaning against the headboard. 

“Saya! What are you doing up?! You have to lie down now!” 

You huff out, “I’m okay, the doctor told me the results came out all fine. My concussion is not serious. It’s almost gone” 

But you’ve said the wrong thing. She’s only focused on the word _concussion_. She grabs both sides of your cheeks and brings you to her. Then her hands go to your forehead to measure your temperature. You have to dodge your hands like you’re in the matrix, feeling embarrassed as the others have access to this little performance. 

“Mother-“you plead, but she won’t stop. Her hand goes to your back then to your collarbones to check for fever, tugging your hospital gown down “ _mother_ , please not in front of them” 

She stops then, remembering the 5 other people in the room. They don’t even try to hide their smiles and laughs. You’re redder than a pepper. Her posture changes just as fast – straight rod and polite. 

“Hello everyone.” 

“Hi, Miss Kuroki” Penelope speaks first, and she shakes your mother’s hand with enthusiasm. “Gosh, it’s so nice to finally meet you” 

Your mother looks her up and down, eyes resting over the bow on her hair – yellow with polka dots. And you speak up, wanting to save Penelope from her judgement. 

“Mother, these are my coworkers” 

She nods and looks to the others. Her eyes shift from Spencer to Emily fast, then at you – and you already know what she’s going to ask. 

“Which one of them is your partner?” 

You flush a deeper shade of red and groan aloud. 

“Ohmygod, none! They’re all my friends” 

She gives a low hum in disapproval. 

“Then your friends did a bad job at keeping you safe while you got shot” 

You throw her a look. 

“Don’t speak to them like that. And I didn’t get shot. _My Hotch_ \- I mean my boss-“ you glance around but none of them caught your small slip, all too focused on your mother. But she catches it, of course. “Was the one who got shot” She does nothing but stare at you. 

“He saved my life. If it hadn’t been for him-“ 

The doctor pops his head back in at the right moment. 

“What’s going on in here? C’mon. Everyone out. The maximum number of visitors is two at a time.” 

“Great, Doctor Sheffield. Start from right here, please?” you point at your mother and she scoffs. The doctor shakes his head. 

“I don’t want to get fired” he says and with that leaves. Everyone walks out without a single word directed to you. 

“Would it hurt if you’d be nice just for once?” you ask her but she shakes her head, planting herself on the chair by your side, ignoring your question. 

“I called your sisters –“ 

“You shouldn’t have. I’m fine. You don’t have to call every single person we know whenever I’m in the hospital” 

“They’re _your_ sisters” she says harshly, and you close your eyes, letting your head slowly back down over the pillow. The same sisters you haven’t seen since you'd moved away. 

“And what did they say?” you turn to face her and she doesn’t meet your eyes. She glances at the sheets on your bed, the chair she is on, and the lights overhead with disgust. 

“I’m changing your room. I already talked to my good friend Director Amano. They will move you out to a spacious deluxe on the upper floor.” 

“I’m fine here. I don’t want to switch rooms when I’m going to be out soon.” 

“You don’t know that” she counteracts, “it’s better to be safe” 

“I’m not leaving this floor” you snap. Not when Hotch is at the same floor, and the team is doing shifts between your two rooms. Her eyebrow goes up in curiosity, but whatever she wants to ask aloud, she chooses not to. 

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have chosen a simpler job.” 

You cross your arms over your chest. Out of all things she decides to say – it has to be something regarding your job. 

“I blame your father filling your head with false heroics-” 

“They weren’t false-” 

David Rossi knocks on the opened door, but doesn’t come in. He smiles at you and then at your mother. 

“Sorry to interrupt” 

“David” you call, glad to see his face at last, since forever, and he nods. 

Your mother stands up, assuming as you expect, for Rossi to be your boss. _What’s he doing here – did he leave Hotch alone?_ He comes in and she shakes his hand. 

“Erika Kuroki” she introduces herself and David smiles politely, “I’m happy to make your acquaintance.” 

“It is my pleasure, Madame. I’m David Rossi” 

“You’re the book man” your mother says and you shake your head. Why does she remember Rossi out of all people, but not the others, your friends, when you’d sent her a billion group photos with them? 

“I am, yes. Though, I am not writing that much these days” 

“Oh, then you should!” your mother says and she brushes her hand over David’s forearm, who lets out a happy laugh in return and you want to puke. You didn’t expect them to actually get along. 

“David-” you call, interrupting the pleasantries, “did Hotch wake up?” 

He looks your way, and nods. Overwhelming relief fills your entire body, leaving you lightheaded. 

“Yes, he just did. The team is with him, before Jack and Jessica arrive.” And you want to cry again from the sheer desperation of wanting to see him, awake and alive. 

“They came all the way down here?” your voice cracks with emotion and David nods again, smiling softly. 

“I thought he’d want to see Jack when he woke up so I flew them here” 

“That’s so nice of you-” and the question itches at your throat so you ask, “how is he?” 

His eyes move from your mother, who watches you in silence, to you. 

“He’s fine, _kiddo_. He will be okay. I wanted to give you the good news” 

You reach your hand out to him from your bed, out of gratitude, and he grabs it giving you a little squeeze. 

“You know”, he starts and looks back to your mother “I know it’s only a hospital but they do make a good tea. Would you like a cup?” 

Your mother smiles, and you’re even more grateful to David – how he’d known that simple act of kindness would make you all gentler to each other is beyond you. 

\-- 

You slip out of the clutches of your mother’s hold when she receives a call from Director Amano and goes out to greet him. Most likely to give him unsolicited advice on the ward’s organization – your mother being a former surgeon and all. The hall of the floor you share with Hotch is relatively quiet after a raucous time when you assume Jack and Jessica arrive. The entire team disappears again, all to gush over Jack’s cuteness – Penelope popping her head into your room just to tell you: 

“You’re not the cutest thing in here anymore, sorry”, leaving your mother surprised, and you in fits of laughter. That was the only sign that Jack had landed. It’s hours later, and you take advantage of nobody being out in the hall to stand by the coffee machines. And it’s not until you’re staring confused at the numbers that you realize you couldn’t find your clothes meaning you have no money. Where was Spencer and his neverending desire to provide you with coffee when you finally needed it? You look up at the ceiling – painted in white and arrows of light blue and navy circling it, and close your eyes. 

“God, if you’re out there” you plead, “can you grant me some coffee?” 

There’s a laugh at your side, and you turn around. A woman with curly blonde hair sits in the hall – early thirties and she looks familiar somehow though you’ve never met her before. 

“Not even God can fix that machine” she says with a smile. “Trust me, I’ve tried and it doesn’t budge. It ate all of my money” 

“Really?” you ask, and narrow your eyes at the machine, as if it would know, “Then it means even God has forsaken it – a true abomination.” 

She nods, and stands up, making her way to you. “I have some coins, if you want. I will gladly let you try your luck with it” 

“This feels like a hidden camera sketch” you let out and she laughs again. “You sure if I put money in there something else won’t come out – like a billion balloons or something?” 

She shakes her head and before you can say anything, she goes through the contents of the bag over her shoulder. 

“Here” she says and takes out 50 cents and you hold out your palm for her. “Be my guest” 

“If it’s a joke, just remember I will hate you and I’ve already been through enough this week already” 

She raises her hands up in defeat. “I will stay right here – if something befalls you, I will face it too.” 

You stare at her for a few seconds – her easy smile and petite figure, even the paleness of her blonde hair look strangely familiar but you still can’t figure out why. You realize you’re staring and shift the attention to the machine. You press number 1 – a simple macchiato, and input the 50 cents. The machine remains quiet and you study it – the buttons, the numbers, trying to decipher the age of it and if it still works. 

“I told you” the woman says and when you take a step back, the machine starts whirring. 

“Oh my god”, she lets out and you laugh. A cup drops from the hole of the machine, then the smell of coffee wafts through the air as the cup starts filling up slowly. 

“I can’t believe it’s working for you” She yelps out and you laugh, surprised too. 

The machine stops whirring, all its engines quieting down as it gives two loud weird puffs. But the coffee looks like coffee and that is good enough. 

“It’s your lucky 50” you say and pick up the cup holding it out to her. She looks at it and then at you. 

“I can’t accept it. I offered you the money. I’d be evil” 

“Please” you push, “it was your money and I don’t really need it” 

You see that she wants to take the cup, and you note the tiredness in her features, and the hesitation too. 

“I’m hospitalized.” you say, “I’m not even allowed to drink this.” At her raised eyebrow you add: 

“The smell of it is enough for me” and she nods, understanding. She takes the cup and mumbles a soft thank you. 

“I feel like I know you” she says then, taking you aback. 

You laugh out of awkwardness. “I feel the same way about you, actually” you admit and she grins. 

“Do you work with Aaron?” the casualness with which she says his name makes the wheels in your brain start moving too. 

“You’re Jessica!” you exclaim at her face and she nods, laughing. 

“You must be Saya” 

You flinch, “Yes, sorry I almost killed him” 

But her eyes aren’t on you anymore as she looks behind you and the noise that follows. Little feet paddle across the floor and you turn too. You’d only seen photos of Jack around Hotch’s office, in literally every corner of it, smile bright and head of short blonde hair resembling his ex-wife, but Hotch from the dimples and cheekbones. He reaches fast for Jessica and she loops her hand around his. 

“Dad told me that he will buy me the new Spiderman comic, auntie Jess!” she returns his wide smile and ruffles his hair. 

“Is that right, buddy?” He nods and the dimples at the sides of his grin are so alike Hotch’s that it tugs at your heart. 

“Buddy,” Jessica calls and she turns to you, and Jack looks up, “this is Saya, she works with your dad” 

His eyes twinkle bright, “You’re Saya?” he asks in wonder, jaw falling open in wonder. 

You blush once again, and you wonder just how much Hotch has talked about you, if they both know who you are already. 

“Nice to meet you Jack. Your dad never stops talking about you” 

He giggles at that and you shake his outstretched hand – small fingers wrapping around only half your palm, but he makes it look as formal as a 6-years older in a business meeting can be. 

“Dad is your guardian angel” he blurts, voice oozing self-confidence. 

You stare at him bewildered. “What?” 

“Yeah,” he says shrugging, “dad told me he saved your life. That’s what guardian angels do.” 

You look to Jessica, hoping for an actual explanation, as heat rises up from your neck to your cheeks. She only laughs. 

“We’re heading to grab some food. We haven’t eaten since we landed” she says and you nod. You watch her walk down the hall, Jack at her side. 

\--- 

You reach Hotch’s room in a daze. Everything is too quiet in the hall connecting your rooms and when you see him through the glass of his closed door, the events of several nights ago resurge again. He’d launched himself at you, his entire body shielding you from the bullets – and there’d been more than one. You know that after Derek had come into your room right after Penelope. He’d said Hotch had run out of bullets and Reus had shot at both of you countless times before Spencer and JJ had gotten to the roof. It had been so stupid, so careless of him to not guard himself but to reach out to you instead. 

You don’t overthink, not when you fear a nurse or a doctor will see you in your little hospital outfit and put two and two together that you’re just walking around when shouldn’t. You turn the door handle softly and push inside. His room is eerily quiet, only the soft beeping of his heart monitor at his side, rising up and down to his steady breathing. His eyes are closed, fluttering, and he’s lying down. You walk to the side of his bed, taking in all of him. His body is covered with a sheet and a blanket – probably something JJ had brought over like she’d done for your bed. His chest and shoulder peaks out from the hospital gown he’s wearing, and they’re bandaged. His face is free from lines of worry and wrinkles, and he looks 10 years younger. Your heart wells just from looking at him, alive and well. 

As if sensing you, his eyes flutter open and they land on you. You still in place and the first thought in your head is that you shouldn’t be here. Not when you hadn’t even asked his permission to come in. But you wait until realization hits him. He stirs slowly, shaking the sleep away and your name rolls out of his mouth in a breath. 

“Saya” 

Your heart does a somersault right then and there. 

“Hey” you whisper, worried still that you’re imposing. 

It registers then that you are here, standing in front of him and not just a fragment from his dreams. He pushes himself up in a sitting position and runs a lazy hand through his hair. For a second you think he’s trying to make himself look more composed, more presentable for you, but that thought fades away just as fast as it emerges. 

“May I?” you point at the chair at his left and he nods. 

He watches you sit down and blinks several times – maybe trying to fight the sleep that weighs down his eyelids. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up” you say and he shakes his head. 

“No, I’m not sleepy” 

You furrow your eyebrows then. 

“How are you?” he asks before you can and you let out a laugh. 

“I should ask you that” you say, “I just bumped my head against the floor, while you got shot.” 

He doesn’t say anything but waits for a proper answer, so you oblige. 

“I’m good” you say, feeling shy under his gaze all of the sudden, “the doctor said I will be out soon. Less than a day or so.” 

His eyes linger on you – their intensity making your words stumble, your fingers pick at one another, and the rest of your body feel warm. 

“That’s good” he says and leans back on the headboard breathing in, shoulders letting go – relief overtaking his features. 

“How are you?” you ask in turn and he stares at you again. 

“I’m fine” he says, eyes shutting again, his eyebrows arching upwards. “All I want to do is sleep, apparently” 

Guilt is the only feeling you have in abundance and it shows its ugly head again at his words. 

“I’m sorry-” you start but falter, “Hotch, what you did -” he opens his eyes at his name, “I just can’t believe you did that.” 

_Five bullets_ , Derek had said. They’d found a total of five bullets in his vest – that could have hit his spine, his chest, his heart, that could have left him crippled or worse, dead. And only one of them had pierced his shoulder. The impact of all those bullets had shocked his entire body making him faint. It wasn’t the one on the shoulder that had made him fall limp over your body, but Reus’ continuous unrelenting shots at both of you. He has a son – that's what you thought in your blacked out dreams in the ambulance ride. He has a son who doesn’t have a mother and you couldn’t take his father away from him too, leaving him an orphan. Emily had confessed to you that the reason why her and Derek had lost it was because tears kept streaming down your face even unconscious. The doctors thought it was a reaction from the pain of your body, but it wasn’t. 

“You shouldn’t have done that” you say and you feel fresh tears ready to emerge again but you don’t have any more in you. You’re all cried out. 

“I don’t regret it” he says simply, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world for him. “You would have done the same for me. I know so.” 

And you would have. You’d throw yourself in the line of fire too if it meant protecting him. You’d follow him in the ends of Earth if he even so mentioned that it’s a good idea and it’s all such a ridiculous thought. Yet it’s so reckless that he’d thrown himself at you and not tackled Reus instead – you both had vests and it’s a missing piece of a puzzle that you can’t connect yet. Since you can’t cry, you laugh, the sound of it catching Hotch by surprise. 

“You need to ease up on selfless acts, man” you say and he watches you with a frown in his face, not understanding. “I know you’re secretly competing with Spiderman” 

His face breaks out in a smile. 

“You can’t shoot up webs from your hands, you know” 

He shakes his head, “yet” 

The sight of him smiling again makes your heart feel full, almost bursting. A small searing pain shoots up from the back of your head all the way to your forehead and you flinch, your face scrunching up at once. Hotch reaches out a hand, palm wrapping lightly around the back of your head, to where a bandage holds the stitches of your cracked skin together – a light superficial small wound that doesn’t hurt as does the occasional headache that hits you at random moments. 

“Sorry, I just get a headache sometimes” you say and he nods. “an after effect” 

His thumb rubs the back of your head, his hand lingering there and you hold a breath. Your hands over his bed had clutched the first thing they’d found at the sudden pain – squeezing Hotch’s hand over the sheets. You want to break the spell that he seems to cast over you, and push away the thoughts that he’d risked his life that run around rampant in your mind, but you’re powerless. You remember the feeling of his hair against your fingertips while he was still over you, forgetting for a millisecond the circumstances. Forgetting even the fact that you’d cried out after they’d taken him away from you, chilled to the bone by the thought that it might be last time you’ll ever hold him. 

_He risked his life for you, he threw himself to protect you._ And you can’t _say it_ – you can’t possibly say aloud what you’re thinking – that there’s something else blooming inside you apart from admiration for him. So, you don’t. 

_“_ It’s also because finally the doctors saw how big of a brain there is inside this scalp. They said it can’t be helped.” 

He shakes his head at your ridiculous words, a small smile escaping him. 

“Hush”, he says, voice soft and kind, husky to your ears. 

“I will if you promise to stop doing tests in an attempt to join the Avengers” 

He shakes his head again but instead of reprimanding you, he lets out a brilliant smile – dimples and all. 

“You’re ridiculous” but he says it almost in the same way as someone would say a compliment. It has the same effect on you, at least. 

“Thanks,” you mutter stupidly, feeling drunk on his proximity. And if you lean closer to him, nobody can blame you – it's just how the chairs in the hospital are positioned. 

"Fair warning" he says and looks down - almost shy, "Jack asked me what happened and I didn't want to be too gruesome, or make him worry too much." 

You remember faintly his son calling him your guardian angel, like it had happened years ago and not mere minutes before walking into his room.

"He knows about my line of work, so I told him I got hurt while saving a friend"

Your stomach is full of butterflies at his gentle words and tone, which always seem to appear whenever he mentions Jack. 

"I apologize in advance if he somehow finds you and asks you questions."

You bite your lip, and you kind of want to keep it a secret that Jack had found you already, only so you can keep _guardian angel_ to yourself. 

"I just met Jessica and him down the hall" you confess and he sighs.

"I"m sorry", he whispers, small and soft. You shake your head - the man saved your life and is worried about bothering you still.

“Thank you” you say again, letting the severity of the words reach him, so he knows you mean it for everything else. For saving your life, for having followed you up to the rooftop, for always being him. A knowing silence passes between the two of you. He must know how you feel, you think. After all he is a profiler.

He nods slowly, a belated confirmation to your silent reading, hand dropping from your head to the side, cupping your cheek. You lean against his palm – the size of it covering almost your entire jaw and his warmth enveloping you in quiet comfort, unlike nothing else. With his eyes on you, you turn your head sideways, enough so your lips brush against the heel of his palm. It takes everything in you to not be as openly vulnerable as the next step requires you to be and press a kiss into his hand - not without asking for permission from him first. He watches you transfixed. No more hiding, you think. 

“Saya-” your first name falls carelessly from his lips again and you don’t think you’ll ever grow tired of it. It would be the easiest thing in the world to get accustomed to it. 

The door barges open and you jump apart from each other. You push the chair back with both feet, the screeching of the steel legs of the chair on the tiles making everyone flinch. Even David Rossi who comes into the room unceremoniously. You become instantly red, ashamed and embarrassed and everything in between. He doesn’t look at you once, but glares at Hotch. 

“Beth is on her way here; she just called the cellphone you told me to answer” 

You look between the both of them – _who the hell is Beth_? Hotch nods, and he can’t meet your eyes anymore. 

“She was very worried” David says pointedly.

You feel so incredibly stupid, so unbelievably dumb. Hotch is seeing someone – _of course he is seeing someone._ This whole thing is just his job – saving people is his job, and he would have done the same thing for Morgan, Reid, and even a stranger. You shoot up and without a word make your way out, not bearing the smell of the room that is entirely him anymore. You hear faintly David’s words behind you before you shut the door. 

_“Aaron, what in the world are you doing?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hotch is a messy hoe, yes  
> (and please i loved beth as a character just because she finally brought such depth to hotch in the series but i was also bitter (ofc))  
> In my minds eye Hotch is always smiling around the women he dates/loves (haley, beth, etc etc)
> 
> I promise you there is a kiss coming soon 😏😌


	12. Less and Less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going back to normal life has never been this difficult, not while one single person takes up your entire thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song title by Matt Maltese

“I’ve hit another wall” Penelope says as soon as you pick up the phone, answering her call at 6am in the morning. You are halfway through the door either way, with last night’s fresh batch of brownies tucked in the bag on your arm. You had been prepared to greet her the same way you had done these past few days: morning angel, I love you and I have something for you and I’m eternally grateful for what you’re doing; but you change it quickly after noting her tone of voice. 

“What is it, now?” you ask, pushing the door behind you closed and marching towards your car in the driveway. 

“ _Freckles_ has cut off all contact with Marie in the last three years. She’s been in and out of rehab for 10 years and oh, _poor_ _girl, she’s_ been through so much.” 

You open the door of your car and let yourself in, gripping the steering wheel almost immediately, your rage spilling out just as quickly. 

“What did he do to her, Penelope?” 

She lets out a heavy sigh and you make a note to yourself to cancel all future plans and spoil her in any way you can – not only for the things she’s been doing for you in secret, but also for those days in the hospital, supporting you through everything. And most definitely, for keeping your mother occupied while Jessica had sneaked in to your room to say goodbye before leaving, gifting you 25 cents over the “shared” coffee as she’d called it – so she wouldn’t ask questions. 

“She filed for sexual assault and stalking when she was a teen.” 

“Let me guess” you huff out, placing the bag gently on the passenger’s seat. “All records sealed?” 

She lets out a hum in response, “And I haven’t even scratched the surface. You’ll see when you get here” There’s more typing in the background and you faintly hear noises of elephants in the background. She’s opened that video she’s been watching religiously, of baby elephants washing and playing in a pond. 

“Latte as always?” you ask, letting your voice soften up. 

“Yes please, and could you ask them to sprinkle some cinnamon too?” 

“Of course,” you say and turn the ignition on. 

“I’ll see you soon” 

You hang up and turn the radio on, but it does nothing to distract you. Nothing has during all this time. Your mind has been preoccupied over one person over and over again, seeing his face and hearing his voice all around – Jonathan Reus. But at least you’re good at compartmentalizing. You can go about your day as normal, and still continue to think about him. You can drive for instance, while thinking about Reus’ disgusting voice playing over your head. You can even honk loudly, hurling a mouthful of swear words in every language that bops in your mind when an asshole in a Toyota Prius merges into your lane without turn signals – the blonde guy behind the wheel leering at you, freckles on his cheeks. You can order coffee all while thinking about Reus talking to his prison buddies, hushing out future plans. Simultaneously, you can smile at the bartender politely as you pick up the order, and see his smile transforming – splitting his face into a predatory grin. You can even get a panic attack in the parking lot corner, and _at the same time t_ hink about Reus pointing your own gun at you, this time no barrier in between. It’s called _multitasking_. 

When you make it to the office, everything is quiet and dark, nobody there yet. You head straight for Penelope’s office, knocking lightly not to startle her before entering. 

“Hey” you greet and she turns around, the video of baby elephants now taking up 2 of her monitors at the same time. 

“Morning” she says and looks up as you take a seat beside her. You offer the coffee first and she breathes out, like she’d been waiting for it for an entire lifetime. 

“I couldn’t look into it in more detail without you here” she confesses and you wheel your chair closer to her, looping an arm over hers, touch being her love language and comfort. It makes you feel extremely guilty and you would have stopped this right before it even started but she’d thought of it first. 

_That day after packing up everything to leave the hospital she’d knocked on your door, and when you hadn’t answered she’d walked in, only to find you on the bathroom floor crying. You’d admitted then that you’d found the locket Revi had gifted you after a long case in the jacket you’d worn that day – a photo of the both of you smiling, a carnival in the background. And you couldn’t see Revi’s face in it anymore. All you saw was Reus. He’d managed to reshape all your memories with Revi at once. Nothing else was left but him. She’d picked up the locket thrown in the trash and tucked it into her own pocket._

_“One day”, she’d said, “he will be gone and you will hate yourself for having_ _discarded_ _all your memories of him.”_

_“One day”, you’d repeated meekly, “when is that_ _going to_ _arrive when he’s god knows where.”_

_“Not if I can help it” she’d said with a smile, “nothing can escape Penelope Garcia”_

“I’ve got brownies” you say softly and she shakes her head, “I’ve lost all appetite and you will too. Trust me” 

_That bad, huh?_

And it was, when you both stopped seeing the files you could barely even talk to one another. Jonathan Reus had really dabbled in every crime possible to find the one that fit him best. 

\--- 

Emily enters the shop, your head snapping at the small bell ring overhead that alerts of new clients. 

Her hair is shorter, no bangs, and she looks real and alive. That still shocks you, even after two months of her reappearing into the office one day – Hotch announcing the tough decision he’d had to make to the rest. Keeping her secret had made him tired to the bone too, and it was apparent in his face and mannerisms. She takes the seat before you, a hesitant smile greeting you. 

“Sorry for being late” she says softly and you don’t want to react – don’t want it to show on your face so explicitly. But she’d died, had been dead for several months at a time. Of course, it had been fake, seeing as she stands here before you, solid. 

“No worries” you say quickly, biting your lip and forcing yourself not to cry again at the memory of her gone, still so fresh. It caught you in random moments, and it’s true that you being in the hospital praying to see the people in your life had rehashed that – made it unbearably stronger. She’s moving slowly as if anything could make you sprint to the door but you wouldn’t. You hadn’t been able to be alone with her like this since she’d come back. Both of you had avoided it, even though Penelope had confessed she’d stayed by your bed the longest. You don’t hate her, or Hotch, or even JJ – as Reid seemed to do. You understood the whole thing, really, and some part of you was more relieved than anything. Yet, you didn’t make a show of it when she entered the office two months ago, like Penelope did, throwing herself in Emily’s arms just to make sure of it. 

_You had felt stagnant, waiting for someone else’s cue, and your eyes lingered on Hotch more than on Emily’s figure. He’d been gone those past months too, and his reappearance, both of theirs, were to alert that Doyle had shown up, his trail still warm. And it had helped, Hotch going away had left you feeling even more relieved, unknowingly so. But, Emily Prentiss’ disappearance hadn’t, and you know._ _You hadn’t wanted to hug her because your mind – the cold, logical part that kept your attention solely on Doyle and the case and nothing else – had planted your stubborn feet to the ground of your seat, unmoving. You didn’t want to be emotional in front of them, and not to her, or Hotch._ _Yet, when the whole situation had panned out and Doyle was gone, shot by his ex-wife in an attempt to save his own son from his life and his same luck, it was like the strings that kept you tight together had unraveled._ _You wrapped your arms around Emily once, when back at the office, a few tears coming to land between her shoulder and head, but she never mentioned it. She’d let you come to terms with it first, and then when she caught you alone, at the conference room, and asked a simple “How have you been?”, everything came rushing back. Derek clutching her body, blood soaking through his vest and shirt, hands shaking in a way you’d never thought it possible from your level-headed colleague. It had gnawed at your insides in that familiar way as did seeing Revi’s body years ago, but this was different. It was like a repeat._ _She patted your back, drawing smooth circles at your shoulders, hands coming to rest at your sides, and when you breathed her in – the same old perfume of lilacs and roses – you'd felt more in control._

“I’ve got the files you requested” she says and pushes them towards you. You make no effort of opening them, not yet at least when you’re both in a public space with top secret files in front that you shouldn’t even have access to. 

“I know how hard it must be” you say, glancing at her, “so I really appreciate you helping” 

“I know you want to do this on your own” she says letting the meaning behind her words hit you. When they do you suck in a breath. It’s useless keeping things from profilers, especially from Emily. And she’d admitted it was strange at first, when you asked her for a contact or two in Interpol, but she’d put you in touch with them. And when you asked again for the files over an international thief occurred last week in Paris, she didn’t add more. 

“But I don’t want to just be handing files down to you” she says. “I can help more if you let me” 

“You can refuse to give me intel” you say instead with a bite in your words. 

She frowns, “So you can go and kill yourself over researching him alone?” 

You breathe out, grimacing. “I’m not researching him alone.” 

“Right,” she says, leaning back, crossing her arms over her chest, “you’re torturing Penelope too.” 

“I didn’t ask her to do anything she didn't want to.” you say and your words don’t sound convincing to you either, not when you’ve started to feel like you’re taking advantage of her as of late. Not while you were still on your weeks off after the hospital – not working on active cases while she did both. 

“I thought you’d be back by now” she continues, “Even Hotch returned to work after a week. And I know how much you love...” she glances at you, studying your face before saying, “your _work_ ”. 

If you had more patience and worry left in you over other normal things you would have lingered on that, ask her what she means. But you can’t do it when you want to leave as soon as possible and read the files she handed you. 

“I know about _fucked-up men_ , you know. You do remember, right?” 

And how could you not remember Ian Doyle. You hadn't stopped thinking about the damage he’d done to Emily, to all of you, since he'd reappeared. But her words manage to strike something deep inside you, and open up a well-sealed door. 

“I don’t know how to handle this” you whisper, “I can’t stop thinking about Reus, Emily.” 

You look down at your lap, not bearing her eyes on you. It feels strange opening up to her like this when she’d recently gone through something bigger and more traumatic. You don’t want to disturb her. You don’t want to tire her, not after everything. Maybe that’s why you’d asked Penelope’s help first and not hers. It’s hard to pretend your problems are worth talking over when she’d left everything, faked her entire existence simply to escape a criminal, and keep the team alive. It’s hard opening up when you’re waiting for her to do it first. Grieving her had been hard to digest and bear through – but you want to know her side of that hell too. 

“I close my eyes to sleep and he’s there, sweet-talking me and manipulating me easier than before. I wake up and he’s there, in every single picture I have with Revi. He’s every single tall blonde man I see in the street. And in dreams I offer my gun to him myself so he can shoot me” 

You expect her to say something, offer any kind of guidance. She keeps quiet, but her hand, palm up, reaches over to your side of the table. You don’t think but take it, and she squeezes your hand at the contact. 

“I don’t even know if he was right.” you say with half a voice. You’d skipped the explicits over you that Reus had said about Revi on the roof. “He said I was Revi's type. That he pushed me away because he wasn't ready for a relationship. What if Revi loved me as more than a friend but he never said anything? What if Reus knew about it because he told him? We trusted each other _with everything.”_

_“_ Would it have made a difference if he loved you in that way?” she asks, cutting off your train of thought. “Would it make a difference now?” 

And you think over it. Right after the academy, and not long after your father passed away, joining Aria’s unit had been a good step – professional growth. But you’d found yourself emotional and lost and Revi had been the support you lacked – friendly, charming, kind and considerate. But he was the best figure of support especially because he didn’t ask for anything in return – only your friendship, innocent and pure. 

“No” you say truthfully. “I would be hurt that he never told me but I think it would have cracked something in our relationship back then. It’s just strange to have somebody tell you someone’s else feelings over you” 

She nods, considering it. “Then stop thinking it” she says simply, “you’ll wreck yourself thinking over what ifs” 

“Or whys” you add automatically, “since he was the only male figure in my life, I became gradually dependent on him after my father’s passing” 

She cocks an eyebrow, “what?” 

You shrug, “I reconnected with my old therapist from when I was living in Dallas.” 

She furrows her eyebrows, “why?” 

“She knew Revi”, and you know it too that it had been stupid what you had done, calling her up on a Saturday, requesting online therapy only to ask her a bunch of question on Revi (she didn’t answer because of doctor-patient confidentiality, obviously), “I wanted to know what she thought about it” 

But you ended up talking about Revi from your perspective and her diagnosis had been that Revi and you had formed a codependent unhealthy relationship during those years. Which prompted you to hang up immediately. _As if she knew anything, really._

“If you decide to search for him once you’re back” she starts, focusing you back on the topic at hand, “I’m here for you.” 

You nod, appreciating her offer but dreading next Monday and going back to the office. Not when you have to confront Hotch too, and him knowing about your feelings towards him, now openly out. 

“Penelope informed me of your intentions last week” she says calmly, changing the topic again and you wince. 

Nothing is finalized yet, but you know that if anything, anyone, would make an attempt to still make you stay – it is Penelope. You say nothing – not of the searches over open positions at the CIA and Interpol and any other institutions or organizations that had international jurisdiction or worked internationally, only as a last thought in case your search for Reus didn’t pan out; or of question you’d directed to Strauss over the possibility of transfers. You’d mentioned it to Penelope too in passing and joking, how you might just have to join the search and do it legally, only so you could stop coming to face walls and locked documents out of your reach. But it’s enough for Emily as a confirmation. 

“Right”, she nods, her voice still soothing to your ears even after all these months apart, “Is there anything I can say?” She asks and both her hands clasp yours over the table.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Maybe Hotch’s assessment had been right – Emily had been more to you during those first months you started at the BAU, not just someone to admire. It wasn’t romantic love, but something else you couldn’t quite name it. You hadn’t even known it but Hotch had. _Him_ _, and his profiling skills_ , you think and shake your head. 

“I’m considering it” you say just as soft, and she squeezes your hand, her face falling, defeated. 

“So, what now?” she asks and let's go, crosses her arms over her chest. She’s back to being methodical. 

So, you are too, as you lean back on your seat. 

“I have yet to decide on what to do” you admit, and she seems relieved at that. 

“But it’s a serious thought” you reconfirm, just to see if you can get another reaction, but she smiles instead. 

“We’ll take as much time with you as we can get” she says and you’re comforted by it, all of them had been a second family – thicker than blood. 

“I want a big going-away party if it happens” you counter, and she laughs. 

“I’ll relay that to Penelope, ASAP.” 

And it’s back to easy talk, the same way the discussions had been between the two of you in the field once upon a time. But still, you feel something is changed, you’re not struck by her appearance as you always were, or as rushed into trying to impress her with words or actions. It is still kind and familiar. She still is, _your friend_ , Emily. 

\-----   


“- are you joining us too, Saya?” Garcia calls out again, her voice higher than the normal pitch. 

She stands between Emily and JJ and you wince despite yourself. Some part of you wants to, but you know after drink number 3 your moody attitude would stop being fun against their lighthearted nature. 

“No, it’s okay. You guys have fun, though”, and they take that as their cue to leave. Their chatters echo even as they make their way through the hall and to the elevator. 

“C’mon you got to air out that brain of yours” Morgan quips as he stands up from his desk. He looks down at his watch, turning it so he can check the time. 

“Hot date?” you counter back, but he dodges that question like an expert. 

“You can’t keep working tonight too” he raises an eyebrow and you shake your head. 

“Actually,” you start, looking towards Spencer who’s still scribbling absent-mindedly on his own desk. “Was thinking that if you were free Spencer,” he looks up at that, “there’s this documentary marathon playing over at Malleus we could catch tonight at 10pm?” 

He gives a tight-lipped smile – his awkward Spencer Reid smile, “I have plans tonight” he simply replies and your jaw hangs open. Even he has predated plans. Everyone but you. 

“Cold, even from you boy wonder” Derek responds with a laugh. “When’s the last time you’ve actually went out, Saya?” 

Spencer turns to you too and you feel the stench of shame surrounding you almost immediately. 

“Last frid-” 

Derek cuts you off, 

“with people outside of work” he adds. 

He was there with you last Friday after all, and he was the witness to you downing three tequila shots with the speed of light. 

“Um,” 

“I think it was April 29th" Spencer answers for you, that eidetic memory of his, at fault. “You told me about the guy from the record store who took you out for ice cream-” 

“Spencer-” you raise a voice a bit, wanting to make him stop but he goes on. 

“- yet you never mentioned him again when March ended” 

“Spencer-” you call out again but Derek’s laughter is louder. 

“My point exactly.” He steps closer to your desk and drops a hand on your right shoulder, forcing you to look at him, “you need to see other people.” 

“Hey, I see plenty of other people!” 

“And you need to get out of this office. You’re becoming like Hotch.” 

Out of the corner of your eye you think you see Spencer nod enthusiastically. He packs up his bag too in a flurry. 

“And he’s not even here right now. So, it’s actually worse.” 

“Pfft” you huff out, and Derek drops the hand from your shoulder, his attention now shifts to Spencer, who stands up. 

“Pretty boy, c’mon I will drop you off.” 

“Oh, thanks” 

Spencer circles your desks as he reaches Derek, all evidence of life from the office now about to leave you here alone. 

“G’night, Saya.” he calls out with Spencer beside him waves at you, as they both exit the door. 

Once they’re out, and the silence of the office settles, that low familiar hum of printers and scanners quieting down too. You run Derek’s words through your mind again. Had you become that predictable? That lonely? You shake your head and look down at the reports on your desk. 

Even Hotch had a life outside of work too, after meeting Beth a month ago on a run – the details of which Penelope had plucked out from Hotch whenever he was cornered alone with her in the office. (It wasn’t much cornering as it was Penelope shooting questions and Hotch answering yes or no, like a speed run reality tv show questionnaire). You’d faked the happiness obviously, when the others started hinting it here and there that maybe Hotch would you give more time off because of _lady loving_. It was like that night at the hospital had been wiped out from his mind and yours. And Rossi's too, who you’d seen tease Hotch even more than before. And maybe the two don’t directly correlate – you overworking yourself to the bone, and Hotch’s famed return of a love life. Yet you feel like if you open that can of worms, something will inevitably spill out. And you don’t want that revelation now, not when you still have several reports to finish. And not ever either, when Reus takes all your free time. So, you don’t let yourself stumble onto any any of it, if you can help it. 

“You’re still here?” 

You jolt out of the chair, your heart beating loudly in your chest, your skin covered in goosebumps. You tear your eyes off of Hotch’s dark office – you don’t remember when you’d looked over to it – and David Rossi stands in front of you. 

“Jesus, you scared me” 

David shrugs, his leather jacket slung over his elbow. 

“Yeah, I still have to finish some work before leaving” 

“It’s Friday night” he says with a frown. 

Like you didn't know already, what with everyone leaving early. 

“No dates?” 

“God, why does everyone ask me that? I’m hardly Derek” you retort, irritated. First, Derek now him, as if the entire office forgot Derek was the serial dater to begin with. 

“No, you’re not a playboy but you’re the only one socially well-adjusted amongst us all”, he replies calmly, “And I don’t remember when’s the last time you talked about someone” 

You lean back on your chair, letting your body slide down, resigning at once.

“Maybe because I haven’t been in a relationship, in so long. And all my friends are out of town or in Dallas. You know this.” 

David scans your face, then looks down at the papers before you. If he asks you which report you are on at the moment you wouldn’t be able to answer truthfully, as your mind had been other places for the last 2 hours. 

“How about a glass of wine?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you asking me out, David?” 

“No. I’m too high-maintenance for you.” he says flatly. A laugh makes its way up to your throat. 

“But I am inviting you to a wine therapy night.” 

“Wine therapy?” you repeat, folding your arms over your stomach. 

He nods, “At my house. I have expensive wines and we can talk about everything you want to talk about.” 

“Why would I want to do that?” you ask but you’re entertained by the idea. 

“Seems like you might need it” David shrugs again. 

You stand up, not wanting to hear more about yourself and your failings at building a social life as excuses to convince you. 

“You had me at expensive wines.” 

David smiles back. 

\---- 

He pops open the wine bottle, taking a glass between his two fingers delicately and pours a small sip on the bottom. He twirls the glass in his hand, letting the aromas of the dark red air out and as he takes a small whiff, his eyes close. He is always so dramatic in everything he does, you know, but he’s also a man of taste, from his clothes, hair, cologne, his lifestyle, his mansion - the one you had been inside of just two other times with the team - and even in his cooking and drinking. 

“That looks nice” you say, sitting on the stool on the other side of his kitchen island. He pours another glass at the same amount and hands it to you. 

You do the same motions he does, following them to the T. The wine smells earthy mixed with sandalwood, and there's hint of fruit too. You take a trial sip, letting it wet your tongue and moving it around so it washes your teeth. 

“That tastes like raspberries”. 

Rossi smiles in approval. “Correct. This is Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. One of my favorites.” 

He pours you a decent amount, once he takes the glass back. You make yourself comfortable as he does so, dropping the bag at your feet, and placing your elbows on the cool white marble of the kitchen island, holding your chin up on the heel of your palm. Your eyes roam around the space. His kitchen cabinets are painted a light forest green, SMEG appliances here and there – the fridge, the coffee machine, (two by the way, one a cappuccino maker and an espresso), the microwave too, and everything is spotless. Low lights hang from the ceiling right above your head making the entire place shine a glowy warm orange color. You note an Italian flag magnet stuck to the fridge. The kitchen, dining and the living room were the only spaces the BAU had crossed, and you assume the floor upstairs is just as spacious. 

He hands you the glass again and you smile in gratitude. 

“Am I getting a house tour too?” 

David takes a sip from his wine glass and smirks, “No. You’ve seen enough of my life already.” 

“Afraid I’ll become wife number five?” you can’t help but joke. Number four was going to be whoever he's been seeing recently, naturally.

“You’re only saying that because I’m rich.” 

“Yeah, but you’re also intelligent. Quite a catch” you tease again. It’s probably the wine making you throw out these stupid jokes. 

“You’ve become quite good at avoidance” he simply says. 

_Ah_ , your laughter dies in your throat, so he’s brought you here to profile you. 

“Not as good, apparently” 

He drags the stool on his side and plops down on it. 

“I don’t miss a thing.” he says and you nod slowly. Suddenly, the wine glass on your right hand becomes the most interesting object in the world and you don’t tear your eyes away from it. 

“So, spit it out. What’s troubling you, _kiddo?_ ” 

You wince. He’s only called you kiddo twice in your whole time at the BAU, once was when you and Hotch didn’t speak to one another the entirety of the month of March on your first year, and second in the hospital to tell you about Hotch's state. Both very different contexts. Both involved his quiet meddling. 

“Nothing” 

His eyebrow remains raised. “Doesn’t quite seem like it” 

You let out a sigh and turn to face him. Guess it’s time to do the therapy part of “wine therapy night” now. And you worry over Derek's words hitting too close to home.

“David, how do you do it? Uh... Date?” 

He lets out a laugh. “Well, when a person finds another person attractive, they ask them out -” 

You shake your head. “Ha ha” you say, your face serious, “very funny” 

“Then what are you asking?” 

He leans both his hands on the kitchen island too. 

“How did you manage relationships while working for the BAU?” and before he becomes hostile, and rightfully so, you correct, “How do you do it now?” 

He lets out a breath, looking up at the ceiling. “You commit, hope the other person is understandable of the situation and hope you can both work at it.” 

You nod as you bring your thumb to your lips and chew on the nail lightly. 

“Garcia could have answered this better than I am doing. JJ too” 

You wave a hand around. “JJ is like married,” you say but he’s not convinced, “and Penelope is understanding, but they’re too nice with me”. Your face scrunches up in a frown. 

“I think the problem is me.” 

“How so?” 

You don’t know where to start, so you don’t think it over before saying it aloud. 

“I’ve been dumped five times just this year” and you study his face, waiting for a laugh, or a frown mimicking yours, but he doesn’t react. “And it’s just June” 

He doesn’t chime in, so you go on. 

“I don’t think I can handle meeting someone else, and getting rejected again.” 

His eyes seem gentle at that as he gives you a small smile. 

“So, your solution is to lock yourself up in the office?” 

You shrug, and take a long sip of your wine.

“It seems to be working insofar.” you retort. Especially since you'd managed to limit time spent thinking over Hotch and Reus too.

“You’re becoming Hotch’s worst version.” 

You wince at the mention of his name, and hope David doesn’t read much into it. Hotch who apparently now has a life outside of work. Hotch who’s now the happiest and calmest you’d ever seen him. Hotch who didn’t stay past 6 anymore. _The new and improved Aaron Hotchner_ , as Penelope Garcia had joked once. You take another sip of your wine, wanting to quench your feelings of pettiness and envy (and jealousy? _can't be_ ) with the liquid, as if they are another type of thirst. 

“So, what seemed to not be working with those five people?” 

You leave the glass on the table, and exhale. 

“Their timing, their effort, their personalities – take your pick.”, you offer, and David’s eyebrows shoot up from your long list. “It either became too much or not enough and I didn’t have anything that connected me to them after few dates” your mind wanders off to your latest relationship, Thomas, the record player Spencer mentioned, who only talked about music and nothing else. “It was like they became another person after some time and I wasn’t into _that_ person” 

_Also because they didn't have a deep voice, and weren't tall, dark and handsome._ But those are needless details.

David pauses, thinking it over. 

“I think _you_ are indeed the problem” 

You freeze again, shocked from his words. You hadn't exactly expected him to be this honest right away. 

“What?” 

“Seems like you made up your mind and didn’t put an effort to get to know them after your first impression.” 

“That’s not-” 

“And”, he cuts you off, “like you were measuring them up with someone else. And when they didn’t quite fit, you stopped putting in effort. Seems a bit unfair towards them.” 

You open your mouth to say something in defense – anything. Open, close, open, close. Nothing comes out. Your words dry in your mouth, and you swallow once or twice, your mouth gapping, looking like a fish. Your body fizzles with nervous energy, the last bit of alcohol from the wine disappearing from your system. 

“Who? What?” 

He shrugs, “I could be wrong though”, he teases, proud from your reaction. But before you can defend yourself he stops you again.

“Weren’t you thinking of applying somewhere else for work?” He changes the topic just as swiftly. 

Your jaw hangs open again, and you’re not sure who to blame for that spill of information. Or if he even overheard you last night in the office, when you were sure everyone had gone, asking Emily how to look up her friend from Interpol on applications.

“Yes, but I don’t know where to even start” 

“Simple”, he says, “you search for open positions at the bureau, or open listings elsewhere. Start gathering the documents you need: references, cv, qualifications, experiences and mail them over.” 

“Rossi, are you telling me you want me to leave the BAU?” 

“No” he says slowly, “but if you feel stuck, maybe it’s time you get _unstuck_.” 

You have been feeling stagnant these weeks, and not just because of Hotch. And you don't want to admit that he takes a significant chunk of space in your head. But it's not just him.

“It doesn’t take a profiler to know something else has been in your mind too" he says then. 

And it’s true, after all the series of events that Reus had brought up you couldn’t simply erase him from your mind – not without knowing how involved Revi had been. It was easy to get caught up in other cases and distract yourself. It was even easier to retreat yourself from the group and make up excuses – only to head home and read upon the files from the cases Reus had been involved in. The few weeks apart after the hospital had done the complete opposite. They’d made you tireless, your nightmares more vivid and Reus’ face followed you everywhere. In the photos with the Dallas unit in your home office, you saw Reus instead of Revi. In the fond memories you had of Revi, he was replaced by Reus. When someone bumped into your arm on the street you saw Reus. He was haunting you – active in your mind’s eye. And it was better to study him and not sleep. It was even better to try to track, through work connections, if anyone working internationally had spotted him. 

“If you think you’re needed somewhere else” he says, sipping on the wine as if he’s talking about the weather and not about you possibly leaving the BAU, “then you should consider it” 

You nod, slowly, not quite believing that everything could indeed be that easy. And you’d thought about it - leaving. It crossed your mind at nights, and even whenever you spoke to Emily. But leaving also meant _leaving everyone._ Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad after all. Everyone had already gone back to the old rhythm of work, the whole squad back to originals. Yet you also felt like you didn’t quite fit in. Not while everyone was _improving._

“No offense,” you start and hold out your empty wine glass for him to refill, “but you’re better at giving work advice than you are at love advice.” 

“We’ll see about that” he says with that mischievous look in his eyes, a signature of David Rossi. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao yall im sorry i know i promised a kiss but i had to rewrite some stuff. I cant make Hotch cheat in this universe (though i shamelessly read fanfictions like that and enjoy it) but if it helps (idk tho) i did write some chapters ahead and some stuff are steamy :) :) :)
> 
> And thanks so much for all the support and views - my entire country is in lockdown so it's helped connecting with people thru this method.  
> I literally started writing this as a fun summer pass-time bcs I loved Hotch's character, it had never crossed my mind to post something online so thnx!!! love u all


	13. Screams and Dreams (Staying friends)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally have a much-needed talk with Hotch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all im back with a v quick chapter that I couldn't figure out where to place with the upcoming chapter that is long-ish.  
> (Thank you Max & Lorelai for creating a very epic moment that I've always screamed about when I first watched it)
> 
> Title from the song by Faye and Sofflee

“Saya, could I see you in my office?” You stop at once, and watch Hotch for a brief moment. He waits for acknowledgement you'd heard him before heading then to his office, his go-bag and suitcase in hands. It hadn’t been even 20 minutes since you had all been back from a case in Miami – a 2 hour and a half flight wrecking you all. 

Emily at your side is preoccupied with Derek over a recent bet they’d made. And Spencer is hovering over his own computer, checking his emails with baby boomer attention. He clicks and taps the keyboard like one too, like he’s never used a computer before in his life. 

The only person who’d heard that is JJ, who you share a look with. 

“What do you think that’s about?” She asks, voice low so the others don’t meddle yet. 

You shrug. 

“I bet it’s because I walked slouching before busting down the unsub’s house”, _or other stupid small_ _unnecessary_ _thing_ _._

She gives you a smile in sympathy and a tiny thumbs up and you roll your eyes. 

You dump your bags over your desk, ignoring the noise that comes with it. And follow him to the office, not caring that you’d made him wait. 

You’d been dreading it – talking to him one on one. You’d both had been masters at it. Prime exemplary records in avoidance. Could have written a PhD or two on how to almost talk about your feelings and then erase them completely from the face of the earth, too. And it shouldn’t have been that easy as it has been. In the office and in the plane – even in the car there’d always be other people around. And they were the perfect barriers (Hotch would agree so too). 

And yet it tugged a bit at you, how he hadn’t stopped calling you Saya since that night on the roof. Not even in front of the team or local police officers. It never crossed his mind to switch and revert to calling you by your surname. It felt unfair that he did it. Like a personal attack, that he could refer to you as he pleased but still pretend everything was normal. 

You gather about your wits and knock lightly on his opened door before walking in. 

He stands behind his desk, pacing back and forth and looks up. It freaks you out. The sight of him doing anything but not stand calmly and authoritatively is freaky. If you hadn’t just witnessed it, you would have wondered if he even knew what pacing was. When he looks into your eyes though, everything comes rushing back – his closeness, his lingering touches that were now inexistent, his smell, face close to yours, and the two times he’d touched your cheeks with reverence. Something unreadable crosses his eyes too at the same time. For a second none of you speak to allow the moment to dissipate on its own. It doesn’t. There’s small heat rising to your cheeks and neck in response. 

“Shut the door” he says next, and you look at him dumbfounded. 

“We need to talk and I’d rather not be interrupted” 

That just confuses you more, but you follow his order on automatic. He still stands when you approach his desk and you pause. _Should you even sit down?_ You put a hand over the leather chair and he sucks in a breath. 

“I won’t keep you long” he says and you drop your hand. 

He looks almost like a caged animal and you regret having closed the door. 

“Everything okay, Hotch?” you ask and he shakes his head, biting his lip. 

“Yes” he says and he watches the way you approach his desk and the worry in your features too – replacing the surprise you’d had before. 

“Doesn’t look like it” you say softly as if you could scare him away. He doesn’t meet your eyes but stares down at his desk, his palm heavy over a set of papers. He doesn’t answer you, and that familiar calmness of his takes over. But there’s a frown in his face, his lips drawn tight, unmoving, and he’s boring holes into those papers. 

“Hotch?” you call but his scowl grows deeper, more taut. And he refuses to look at you. 

You gravitate closer – you can’t help it - and reach for his hand over the table. Your fingers merely brush his knuckles before he yanks his hand away. He retreats, his back hitting the library behind, few Knick-knacks shaking and dropping to the floor. His worry lines soften when he meets your eyes. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea” he says, his voice a whisper. 

“What isn't?”, you ask, and you eye the way his arms move to his chair, shifting it an inch, as if barricading himself from you. It’s all so ridiculous, you think for a split second. 

“Hotch, did I become contagious in Miami or something?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Then, what is it? Did I grow a head or two when I walked in here?” 

You take a step back, unconsciously, and he reacts immediately, his body relaxing, his fists uncurling. 

“I think you should sit” he says. 

It irritates you more. 

“First, I can’t and now I should?” you cross your arms over your chest, “are you pranking me? Did _you_ get contagious in Miami?"

When he doesn't answer you sit. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s this about or do I have to get you a doctor?” 

His eyebrows go up. 

“You’re behaving strange” you admit. You stand up and he backs away once more, dragging the chair in front of him, now fully between the two of you, together with his desk. 

“3 meters or 10 feet apart” he says, “that’s a safe distance for me” 

It hits you then. It should have since you’d walked in – from his erratic movements, to his body language, to the way he regards you now, as if you were going to jolt and jump him. He’s trying to control himself, _around you_. You’re speechless so you just stare. 

“If I’m not risking my life for you, then I’m -” he gulps, swallowing thickly whatever other emotions he wants to keep at bay, “I’m doing something else”.

And you _know_ that he’s referencing all the times he’d been a breath away from you, unable to stop himself before reaching for your skin and touch. The moment from before grows heavier, weighing down your body too. You’d thought he’d forgotten it completely. That he’d wiped it from his memory with painkillers and whatnot. But he’d touched you first, both times, and those couldn’t be easily justified. A silver of hope blooms inside your chest, but it’s painful and overwhelming - like someone filling up your lungs with wool. You can’t speak either now, because _what does it mean_ ? He’s the one dating another woman. He’d read your emotions clear on your face and he’s, _what_ , just now admitting to something too? But it can’t be. Not while he has Beth. Not while he’s been the happiest, he’s ever been while with her. 

“Safe distance?” you repeat, your tongue feeling heavy in your mouth, unable to form other words. 

He nods, “I need to be in control” he draws out, not meeting your eyes but looking to the window, to where the others remain. He curls his fingers into fists. 

“This is my office and I-I can’t have you breach the safe distance” he says in a flurry but his words sound rehearsed like he’d been reciting them to himself for a long time. 

You feel a thudding in your head – a billion things running through your mind but one single thing comes above all else: _or what?_ And you want to ask him. The question is right there drifting from the tip of your tongue. The crazy, impatient part of you wants to reach out for him again, just to see if he’d storm out or jump to the ceiling. Or if he’d finally react in the way he’s been trying not to. 

_Would he stop caring about the location? Would he wrap you in his arms and kiss you, at last?_ As if sensing the storm going in your mind, he quiets you down with his next words. 

“I called you in here to talk about Reus” and the ice breaks. Talk about an efficient mood killer. 

“Yes, I’m aware of his existence” you reply like a brat. You don’t want to think about Reus. Not right now, when Hotch looks like _that._

“What’s this about?” your irritation is visible in your voice, as is the impatience in your face. 

“Have you been keeping tabs on him?” he asks. 

“No”, you lie, nonchalantly. He doesn’t believe you – you see it too. 

“I have” he says and you’re shocked to say the least. “The CIA and Interpol are forming a joint force to catch him” 

You hadn’t known that. Not even Emily knew, when you last spoke to her about Reus. 

“Why is the CIA involved?” you ask. 

“The relationships he built in prison include a few notorious criminals from terrorist groups. They think he will be a resourceful asset.” 

_Why is he telling you this? Why is this the most pressing issue?_

“So?” 

“I recommended them your name” he says at last. 

Out of all things in the world you’d expected him to say – this hadn’t been it. 

“I told them you were familiar with him and his behavior. And your relationship with Revi could aid in the search” 

“Hotch” you let out, not caring about his distance rules anymore and placing both hands over his desk, “where are you heading with this?” 

“They’re offering you a position as a liaison. You’d monitor the search and offer insights while still remaining in the FBI-“ 

“But I’d have to leave the BAU” you fill in the blanks and he nods. 

_Does he want you to leave? Is this what this is all about?_

_“_ I don’t oppose it” he says, leaning an elbow over the top of the chair, “I would encourage you but I know you don’t need it, not when you’ve been trying to find Reus this entire time” 

You squeeze your eyes shut. You were waiting for it – for him to find out about Penelope’s involvement and Emily’s too. But not this soon. 

“This would allow you to do it legally. And then it’s up to you to decide what you do afterwards.” He lets the word sink in and you stand up abruptly. 

“You want me out of the BAU” you state, studying him for confirmation. 

“I don’t want you away from me at all” he says quickly, and his words are in starching contrast with his face – his forehead furrowed into an agonized frown. “But this is your decision” 

You want to move away from that confession and dwell on Reus, but your heart breaks. It takes you some time to chew on what he says and on the offer.

“When do I need to reply?” 

“By next Monday” he says. 

You turn your back to him, wanting to leave the office at once and digest everything in peace. 

“Saya” he calls again, in that same soft tone he always does when saying your name – like the most precious thing in the world. 

“You will _always_ have a place here” 

And he might as well just state aloud what he implies too: _just not now._


	14. Hotch's Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the most unlikely of places - a Christmas office party, your night is filled with new revelations. And maybe the team knows more than they let on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title adapted by Marika Hackman's song Claude's Girl that is so beautifully haunting  
> (back with a long one bcs im supposed to study instead !! lmao hope you enjoy)

Another message alert from your phone and you pick it up, for what is the millionth time on the row expecting it to be about work. But it’s the girl’s group, messages buzzing one after another. You pick up at the last text by Penelope. 

_Penelope: Someone’s_ _bringing the booze right?_

_JJ : it’s a party with booze included, Pen_

_Garcia: you do remember the FBI is not very fond to high alcohol percentages right?_

You leave the messages on read, and return to your bathroom, taking a last look in the mirror. You let the phone over the sink and unplug the hair curler. You’re wearing red for the first time, embracing the festivities of the season, and a short dress with a plunged neckline – not revealing too much to appear scandalous, but it still hugs your curves. You feel embarrassed then. The most the team had seen you wear during all this time was pant suits or jeans. Nothing like a skirt or a dress, not when you never knew when you were going out chasing criminals. Now the color red feels dumb too. Maybe you’re taking the whole Christmas Bureau Party thing to its extremities. You pick up your phone, seeking reassurance from the people who were the best at it. Your fingers type fast. 

_Saya_ _: Is anyone else wearing red? Or do we call that cliché?_

_Penelope responds first, :_ _Oooo_

_Then another text bubble: Did the vampire decide she likes_ colors _now?_

You let out a laugh. After _new bird,_ and _birdie_ the nickname had transformed to _vampire_ , and that one stuck as it irked you more that the first. Since dark colors were all you wore. 

JJ replies next: _it’s a classic of the season. I think it’s not cliché._

You type back _: so what are you wearing?_

But your message goes unnoticed as Emily types: _I want pics._

You blush at that – it was common to send photos and selfies more than anything else. So, you just go along with it – taking a mirror selfie, not bothering to clean up the mess at your sink. Make up bags, brushes, and hair ties. You hit send and wait in agony. 

_Penelope: WOWZA! You’re stunning!_

_JJ: yes,_ _yes,_ _yes,_ _this color on you is amazing_

_Emily: wow, i'm seldom this speechless but here I am now_

You laugh at your own reflection in the mirror. Ok, so approved by the group and your confidence is back on. 

Then, as a thanks you type back. 

Saya: _I will bring small alcoholic bottles but I refuse to be your designated driver_

Tonight you want to get drunk, you feel, or at least not limit yourself to being sober. 

_Penelope: deal, babe!_

\----

You wait by the entrance of the building, your large black coat covering the entirety of your body, keeping you warm, and a tight wool scarf around your neck and shoulders, your hair tucked in. Emily’s car arrives soon. She raises a hand up before heading to the parking lot. She’s followed by JJ with Will in tow, both getting out of a cab. They look formal chic, Will is in a suit, no tie, the azure button up bringing out his blue eyes and JJ looks stunning. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, a long black dress donning her petite figure under the winter coat she’s wearing. She hugs you close as she approaches you, reintroducing you to Will, who even though he’s met you twice, loops an arm around your shoulders for a quick hug. Always friendly and smiling. 

“Are you waiting for someone?” She asks, and her arm is tight around Will’s elbow, and she looks at him. 

“Yes, we wait with you” 

You wave them away, always so careful. 

“It’s okay, I just wanted to see Emily. She’s just parking. You guys go ahead” 

“You sure?” Will asks and you smile, reassuring them once more. 

“Are the others in?” Jennifer asks and you nod. 

“I saw Penelope with Derek but I guess the others are inside” 

They smile, “See you inside, then” 

“Yes” she squeezes your hand lightly and they both walk into the building. 

You bring the collar of your coat up to shield your nose and mouth from the freezing cold and look back at your phone. A new text message pops up. 

_Emily: Do you want to leave your huge bag in my car, or are you planning to rob the place?_

You smile at that – it was just a second that she passed by you with the car but she remembers your backpack. Emily had offered you stay at her place for the night so you didn’t have to drive alone after. Especially after drinking. Another message. 

_Emily: I’m parked on the sidewalk. I’m waving at you_

You look to your left and you see her figure with both arms up, waving at you as if she’s out after a shipwreck. You laugh, and walk towards her, the cold making you speed the pace. When you’re near her, her arms are still up and she whisper-shouts. 

“Kuroki! Kuroki! Kuroki!” 

You shake your head and go for the passenger door – locked. 

“Emily?” 

“I need help! I see someone not wearing black!” 

You roll your eyes and join her side. “I’m not even out of this coat yet” She lowers her arms, and with a smirk “I know. Can’t wait for the show underneath” 

You grab the car keys slinging from her thumb and ignore her and the light brush crossing your cheeks. Upon unlocking the car, you throw your backpack on the back, and lock it again, returning the keys to her open palm. 

“Stop it” you say, as you meet the same expression she gave you in the beginning. 

“Why?” she asks with a coy smile, “you don’t like the attention?” 

“No” you say as you both turn back to the building – a hotel with a huge restaurant hall as the emails had said. “Not from you” you lie through your teeth. She loops an arm around your elbow like JJ and Will had done moments ago and she laughs again. 

“I’m sorry but there’s going to be more of that when you shed that coat” 

“No, there won’t” 

She tugs at you slightly, “I’m telling you there is going to be a whole swarm of suits at your beck and call tonight” 

You shake your head at that but you do enjoy her teasing. It’s so easy for her to put you in a good mood. 

“Maybe even Agent O’Hara will say hi” 

“I don’t even know who that is” you say and she turns you sharply to stare at you. 

“The only attractive, single non-white and non-decrepit old man in the whole building of course!” 

You’re half paying attention to her as your phone buzzes again. You aren’t able to not look at it, as your mind always goes to the possibility of new cases. And maybe even the long awaited confirmation email signaling your starting day. 

_Garcia:_ _o’hara’s_ _brought a girl_ _LL_

You show the screen of your phone to Emily but she shakes her head. 

“You can take him. I’ll hold her off” 

You shrug, “or vice versa, depending who’s hotter” 

She laughs, the sound of it close to your ears as her hot breath is out in visible puffs in the cold air. You stop at the stairs leading to the entrance and your attention shifts to the cab that just stopped. The doors open revealing Hotch, and your feet pause, involuntary. You’re like a deer caught in headlights as you look him up. After that day and a week – you hadn’t talked to him. You relied on the rush of new cases to distract you and it worked. He’s wearing a brilliant navy suit, his hair licked clean over his head – beautiful. Your heart picks up the pace, when he makes its way to the other door, opening it up. A woman with short dark hair and a wide grin makes its way out. He holds out his hand for her to take, as if this is a period drama. Her beautiful figure is wrapped around a gray dress and a thick blue scarf envelops her shoulders. She’s holding onto a coat in her arms and she’s wearing tall strappy heels. The two of them smile at each other, still in their own bubble. You watch as he brings her hand still wrapped around his to his chest and looks her down. His smile is nothing like you’ve ever seen before, his focus unwavering. There’s a painful sting at your throat, which passes to your stomach and you hurry up the stairs tugging Emily with you. Before she notices them. Before he notices you. When the elevator closes with just the two of you inside and a bellman, you let out a breath, feeling shaky and unsteady. 

“I know right” Emily says beside you, “thank god we are warm in here” 

“Right” you give her a small smile. “Right” 

The hall that the Bureau reserved for the office Christmas party spans wide, resembling a ballroom, large tables lined around the walls, leaving space for a dancing stage in the middle. Everyone is supposed to be sitting with their team, and you dread that the most. You follow Emily towards the coat check, still crowded. Not by people hogging the line but from people meeting one another. Emily takes off her coat before she’s near and hands it to the woman in front – a petite blonde woman with huge glasses. She’s dressed in all black and her short blonde hair is tucked behind her ears. Emily must have told something to her because she smiles shyly. 

“Fuck, I have to greet these people” she whispers to you before she joins two men by the handrail on the other side of the corridor. 

“May I have your coat?” 

“Ah yes” you turn your attention to the girl, and take off the coat and then the scarf, and she looks at the handbag in your hands. 

“You want me to take that too?” 

You think back at the whiskey bottles in your purse, technically for Penelope and the girls but you reconsider. 

“No, thanks. Gotta keep my gun with me.” 

Her eyes go wide at that. 

“Sorry, you’re not allowed to do-“ 

Your hands go up, cheeks flushed at the misunderstanding. 

“No I joke, I swear” she breathes out in relief, “A very bad joke, sorry” you put a hand to your forehead and she laughs. 

“It’s okay I’ve heard worse this night already” 

She looks at the old men standing at your left and shrugs. 

“Imagine joking about something worse than having a gun” 

“Oh, I don’t have to” she says and she takes your coat and wraps the scarf around. 

“What name should I write?” She asks, and you lean in closer, taking a quick glance at her nametag, _Louise._

“Saya” 

“How do you write that?” 

“With flourish” you say and she chuckles as she lets go of the pen and paper and pushes it towards you. You lean down and scribble your name, adding a flower underneath. Her smile is dimpled and it tugs at your insides, resembling someone else’s. She slaps the tag to your coat and goes back to the hangers behind her – a large dark room already half full. Perfect as a hiding spot too, you think, if someone were to talk to you or their presence turned out to be too much at your table. 

“Are you looking to hire?” you ask as she returns, smiling again. 

“Thought your job brought you here” 

You cross your arms in front of your chest, “It’s better to keep options open at all times” 

She shakes her head and sits back on a chair in front of her table. 

“Were you looking for tonight, perhaps?” Her eyes look you up and down and Emily’s words come to mind – about attention and all that. 

“Maybe” 

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m here until midnight” 

Her smile is kind, her light blue eyes sincere. 

“Saya-“ Emily beckons you too her and you join her. She hooks an arm around yours as soon as you’re near and turns to whisper. 

“At your 12 is Agent Ken O’Hara” 

You shake your head, of course she’d pulled you in just for this. Yet you still humor her. The man in question is tall, broad shouldered and he must have taken his suit jacket off because he stands only wearing a white button up and black slacks. He has a small smile as he talks to a woman in front of him. His hair is long and in luscious black curls reaching the collar of his shirt. He turns for a second to look at something behind you and Emily and you note he has green eyes too. That name now is vividly familiar – he must have passed Dallas at some point, or known Revi or Aria. His eyes stop on yours for a moment and there’s a small hint of recognition. 

“He looks like a model” you state the obvious and Emily chuckles near your ear, as if you’re both schoolgirls. “But he looks like _your type,_ not mine” 

She gives a small nod in reply. 

“Is this why you came back from Paris?” you turn to stare at her, face inched closer to yours, and you feel her hair on your face as she shakes her head. 

“Admit it” 

“He doesn’t look like my type” she says then, and you march forward. How hard can it be to talk to a simple man? 

“Wait, what are you doing?” Emily clings at your wrist but you still pull her with you. 

“I’m making you get this man” you whisper and as you both come into view, she straightens up immediately as O’Hara, together with the woman in front of you turn your way. 

“Agent O’Hara” you say confidently, and he gives you a small smile. “I’m Agent Kuroki from the Dallas field Office” 

“Ah” he lets out, and his voice matches his appearance – low and husky, “From Aria’s unit, right? It’s nice to see you again.” 

You nod, as you hold out your hand which he shakes firmly. 

“I heard about Revi” he says, and his eyes fall to his hands momentarily, expression changing fast. As does yours. 

“I’m sorry about your loss” 

“Thank you,” you say 

“Are you still in Dallas?” he asks looking around, as if you’d taken the plane over just for the Christmas party. 

“No, I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit since 2 years ago” and he nods, a grin reappearing in his face. 

“Wow” he lets out, “that’s an impressive team of agents.” 

Emily at your side, squeezes your arm for a second. 

“I keep hearing about the cases you solve every other day. I’m quite envious.” 

“That reminds me”, you say and you hold out a hand to where Emily stands, “I wanted to introduce you to Emily Prentiss, she’s got quite a background at Interpol as well”. 

They shake hands as his mouth forms a small o in awe. 

“Well, it’s a great pleasure”. 

Emily seems to change at that, her usual bravado back again and she’s her normal confident self. Penelope from inside the ballroom spots you and raises a hand in a wave. She’s got Derek attached to her arm as he laughs at something, she must have told him. You make a beeline to where she stands, not stopping for any of the agents that look up along the way. She’s already got a glass in hand as does Derek. He’s the first to talk. 

“Wow, baby girl, you weren’t joking when you said it” 

Your cheeks heat up as his eyes look you up and down, not hiding his stare or the way his jaw hangs open – it's all a mockery made to make you feel self-confident in your looks, and a tease at your compliance to the party’s rules. 

“How much did she pay you to do that?” 

Penelope huffs out a laugh, “I didn’t tell him to do anything” 

“Please” you say, “You’re making me wish I stayed home” 

Derek’s face is teasing, “Are you shy, now?” 

“I’m not” you spout out like a child. 

“Oh, I think yes. Strange, I didn’t know you could be shy” 

You roll your eyes at that. 

“I’m human, Derek” you mutter again and Penelope’s having the time of her life, laughing at your reactions. 

“Didn’t think it possible, before” he says and there’s some truth there. You’d never been one to be super emotional in the job – and the team saw that side of you more than any other. 

“Where’s the booze?” 

“Where’s Emily?” Penelope asks at the same time. She reaches up in her tippy toes, but she still can’t spot her. 

“With Ken” you say flatly as you scan the room for the bar. 

“Who’s Ken?” Derek asks, curious too. 

“The guy from organized crime.” 

They look at you intently. That’s not enough information but it’s fun to have this much power already. 

“Who?” Penelope asks. 

“Ken O’Hara.” 

Both of their faces light up, as they exchange looks with one another. 

“She’s talking to Hottie O’Hara?” 

You see a line of people queued on the left of the entrance doors, all going to the bar. Bingo, you think. 

“Yes, I didn’t know that was _The_ O’Hara you guys talked about. I worked with him twice while in Dallas” 

They still look shell-shocked as you finally make your way to the bar. 

“Saya!” You turn around at the voice – Spencer Reid, glorious messy hair, dressed in a dark burgundy suit, that only he can pull off, stands up from a table he was sitting at, with Anderson and Morrison in tow. His eyes don’t scan your figure the same way the others did, and that’s a huge comfort. Yet he still manages a small smile, and the tiniest “You look nice” and it’s the biggest compliment coming from him. 

“There’s a book fair tomorrow of scientific old German manuscripts. Do you want to go? I called ahead since it is exclusive, and they were able to make a spot for us.” 

You smile, and you kind of want to reach out and hug him – the emotion never getting to you as strongly as now. There’s something about Spencer always thinking ahead of your engagements, and wanting to share with you his interests and hobbies. 

“Yes, I’d be into that.” He grants you a tight-lipped smile, and you note the empty glass in his hand. “You want a refill?” 

“Ah, I don’t do alcohol tonight” he says and he looks shy, feet shuffling back and forth. 

“Cool, a coke?” 

He nods, “Thanks. I’ll hold you a seat next to mine?” 

“Please” you practically beg, anything that won’t end up near Hotch’s. 

He goes back to where Penelope and Derek stand, and a grinning Emily joins in. A couple of men see you in queue, and as you smile at them, they let you go ahead, giving up their spots for you. Maybe, Emily was right. And maybe, attention wasn’t that bad. You order a gin and tonic for yourself, and a coke for Spencer, thanking the bartender as you leave. Upon turning back to the line that’s gotten bigger, you hear a voice too familiar for your liking. 

“-yes we’ve been training along the river” 

You halt, not wanting to listen in but too curious to make a move. 

“Thankfully, it’s been a good weather this month” Hotch continues and you hear Rossi’s voice too now. 

“I’m sure you’ve been enjoying running more now with the company”. 

A woman’s soft chuckle joins them. 

“It’s been nice, yes” Hotch replies and you dare to glance at them. 

They’ve stopped on the right of the bar, close together with drinks in hand. Hotch’s got an arm wrapped around the waist of the woman from before. His back is to you, and Rossi’s turned to the woman, who’s now fully visible. She looks prettier closer – gentler features, eyes twinkling as she keeps her gaze trained on Hotch. Your mouth tastes sour and you haven’t even tasted the gin yet. You watch their backs as they turn to the team – Penelope, Derek, Spencer and Emily. JJ and Will join them too and your legs refuse to move beneath you. You can’t. You can’t go there. You don’t know why, not entirely sure at why your body refuses to connect to your mind giving it orders. Maybe you’re sick, you think, as a cold flush passes through your spine. Reassuringly, your hands can still move, so you take a swing, finishing the drink and leaving it on the table in front of you. The coke you carry, as you make your way out to the hall that is now empty. You press your back to the white column, hiding yourself from view. _One,_ you count, and breathe in. Two, breathe out. Three, breathe in. Four, your exhale is out of you with a shudder. Your mind is still awake, at least, but your body still shakes. You look down at the dark liquid in your hand, bubbles coming up and down, the soft fizzles making you relax. A billion questions rise quickly, as soon as you’re back in control. 

Your fingers tap at your collarbone, a sign to ease your anxiety and it helps. You take another deep breath. Y _es, have a panic attack at your office’s Christmas party, that’s a good idea._ Your fingers tap with more force and your breathing slowly becomes controlled. It's just a normal panic attack. Your mind buys it long enough – you've had anxiety attacks since the start of your professional life. An aftermath of the work and having witnessed so many victims. And you cling to that, as you make your way back to the ballroom. Everyone is almost already seated, and you’re aware of the noise your heels make across the floor, making even the ones who don’t know you look up. 

“-there she is!” Derek says aloud, and you plop down on the chair next to Spencer. He’s got an arm around the back of it but you don’t mind. You don’t notice who’s on your other side until you’re fully seated. Hotch looks up at you with that radiant smile you’d noticed at the door. 

“Finally,” he whispers. His eyes trace your figure, looking you up and down in a much subtler way than Derek’s. You wouldn’t have caught it if it weren’t for his words at you. They linger on you even as you look away, not bearing the intensity of his eyes. _T_ _hat woman_ , the one who’s here with him, is on his other side, tucked in so close to him, their bodies are pressed together. The sour taste is back and that reminds you. 

“Here” you say to Spencer, and place gently the coke in front of him. 

He grants you a wider smile and you inch your chair closer to his. Anything so that you can’t overhear anything you don’t want to from the couple on the other side. 

“This is Agent Saya Kuroki,” Hotch says, and you straighten up, as if he’d called you for a job. 

“And that makes the entire team”. 

He’s introducing everyone to the woman at his side, who holds out a hand for you to shake. Spencer’s remarks on hygiene repeat themselves in your head but you still shake it. 

“Saya, this is Beth” 

And you knew her name ever since Rossi had barged into Hotch’s hospital room that night. You’d heard it mentioned by Penelope and the girls too, in passing. Yet some part of you had been wishing she was imaginary. 

“Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you” she says, smiling kindly at you. 

_Doubtful,_ you think, but you keep your voice civil. 

“Pleasure to meet you too” 

“So, sir-” Penelope interrupts and you’re grateful. “How did the two of you meet?” 

Hotch smiles, almost _bashful_. It’s like watching an alien, you realize. All these new mannerisms of his you didn’t know about. 

“We met in the park. I was training for the marathon, and well, she-” 

Beth, speaks up, her voice soft and feminine, yet still a shrill to your ears, “I chased him” 

The team breaks out in laughs, but she doesn’t shy away. 

“No”, Hotch says with a laugh, defeated, “we just talked and decided to train together.” 

_Cool, cool, cool. Extremely._

Then the background music of the ballroom dies down, as a man takes the center stage. A few words of welcome, a few of good wishes and whatnots. And then the director takes the stage, followed by Strauss and other section chiefs. You look down at the table and you regret it – Hotch's hand is wrapped around Beth’s long fingers, resting on the table between them. You breathe in sharp and Spencer’s arm moves behind you, coming to lightly brush your shoulders – the touch immediately relaxing you. It’s a reflex for him that you’re sure he isn’t aware of - giving comfort to others so automatically. You still lean into it, grateful. His hand stays over your shoulder the entire time, until he feels your body relax. You look to him to express your gratitude but his attention is fixed on Strauss. You try to do the same. The first course arrives, antipasti of fish and other delicacies but you don’t eat much. Everything tastes bitter and wrong. But when the waiter passes by with the wine samples you let him pour you a glass of red.

Rossi raises his own at you, “A woman of good taste”. You chat at Spencer about anything that comes to mind – just so your eyes can stay on him the entire night and nowhere else, and you think at some point you bore him. You _must_ bore him, but his attention never wavers, even as the one glass of wine, turns into 2 and then 3, even when there’s not a course passing your table. When you don’t discuss with him, you use the bathrooms as an escape. It works for some time. Then Penelope catches you when you return, lingering by the bar as you order another glass of wine. 

“Are you having a heavy day?” her worried eyes stay on you. 

“What?” 

“You’re on your period right? I thought as much when you kept going to the bathroom so many times” 

“Ah” you sigh as the bartender hands you the glass of red. _So, bathroom not a good solution._

“Because I have some tampons in my bag if you want? Pads, too” 

_Sweetheart,_ you think. She’s always so sweet. 

“And I’m sure we can bribe someone for chocolate here. I always eat chocolate when I’m on my period. Helps a lot” she looks at the waiters still going around, trying to get someone’s attention. 

“It’s such a pain when it happens when you’re out. Ruins your whole day and mood” 

She’s not even a profiler and she’s already got you figured out. Albeit for different reasons. 

“No, it’s just a-“ your mind scrambles for excuses, “just an uncomfortable pantyhose” 

She breathes out then, relieved. 

“Oh, thank god.” But her eyes stay worried, “you should just take them off, your legs are great either way.” 

“Yes, I’ll do that” you reassure. 

She turns to look at your table, and her smile goes soft at the people sitting around it – _the family_. You lean your elbows back at the counter, next to her and scoff. Beth is saying something to Rossi, that even Jennifer is paying attention too. 

“I thought this was Bureau _only_ ” you mutter under your breath and take a sip of your drink, “I mean it’s not a wedding, where you bring just anyone.” 

You feel Penelope’s eyes on you but you pay no mind – Rossi and Jennifer laugh now, and Hotch is so intently focused on her. 

“Like what’s the point if there’s more people? It’s a _work_ party” 

You don’t even hear yourself, the angry words coming out of your lips with no filter. 

Penelope’s burning fires with her stare on you. 

“No…” she lets out, slowly. 

“What’s next? Someone showing up with their grandparents?” 

“No, no” she repeats again, “ _Hotch_?” 

You finally turn to her, realizing she’s been mumbling words for some time. 

“What?” 

“Hotch?” her eyes go wide, as she slaps a palm over her open mouth. 

“What?” 

“Hotch!” she says once again, and her voice is a whisper-shout. 

“What about him, Penelope?” 

Her eyes dart from you to your table, so fast it must make her dizzy. 

“You!” she points a finger at your face and you scoff. 

“Yes, me?” 

“Hotch!” her hand drops down, and her features change. Her eyes are gentle, eyebrows drawn together and downwards, mouth in a downturned line. 

“You _l_ _ove_ Hotch!” she says in a whisper. 

Your ears burn immediately, your cheeks flushing next. 

“No” you say in a rush, “no, of course not” 

“Oh” her voice drops so low, and her hands come to clutch one another over her chest, “ _you poor thing”_

She says it so tenderly, the words too gentle and full of emotion. It’s not pity, or judgement, but simple sympathy. And you’re not as embarrassed as before. 

“Penelope” you start but her words have influenced you already, leaving you shaky. “I do not _love_ Hotch” 

She completely ignores you; her smile is painfully sad in her face. 

“Oh, _my sweet bird_ , you have the _worst_ timing” 

Your throat closes up, her own emotions swallowing you. She’s always so tender with your friendship, and with her support. Your own emotions well up in your chest, too tight to make you breathe normally. 

“I should have known” she whispers, “It’s always on your face.” 

Her words shock you. 

“what is?” 

She motions no with her head. 

“Honey, whenever you’re around him, _you bloom_.” 

Her words strike your heart efficiently, stealing away your air. 

“You’re more yourself when you’re with him. And he’s always smiling around you too. And that man has never once willingly smiles in all these years I’ve know him.” 

You look down at the glass in your hands, the grip around it tight. 

“This isn’t Pride and Prejudice, Penelope” 

She let’s out a small laugh. You want to add something, an explanation of sorts. That it’s impossible because… _because_ . Because Hotch is significantly older, _that’s right_. You wait for her to bring it up too, as an argument against it. Anything. 

You try again: “I do not love him, Penelope” 

Her hands clutch your free hand, bringing it up to her chest, pressing it to her body. 

“You can tell me anything, Saya. I’m always here for you. You know that, right?” 

You nod at that, relieved at the comfort she offers up. 

“If it ever becomes too much to handle, you just tell me, okay? Doesn’t matter what I’m doing, I swear.” 

You don’t know what to say or how to react. _Because you don’t l_ _ove_ _Hotch._ Sure you liked him and admired him. Of course, you couldn’t count them with your fingers – the times when you felt deep admiration for him. You _do_ search for his touches and silent stares. Heck, you even looked out for his companionship out in the office or in the field. And yes, you _admit_ , you’ve thought about him as more than just a coworker and boss. The many dreams too. And you _did_ linger close to him whenever possible. Plus, _you stop and think_ , there was that room you shared in a hotel on a case, once. And you could _definitely_ count in the fact that you had wanted to tell him about your feelings in the hospital room aloud, even when he seemed to read them in your eyes. You liked him but you didn’t… 

_Fuck. You’re in love with Hotch._ _Who falls in love with their late-30s, early-40s handsome and strict boss?_

You can’t imagine a moment where it would become too much when you work with the guy. You’ve always worked with him. Yet you do a small nod, and she smiles bitterly. Her hand cusps your cheek and you automatically lean into her touch. It lasts a second and as you both turn towards the ballroom again you stare at Hotch and Beth nuzzled close to one another. 

“God” Penelope breathes out, “I hate her, but I love her” 

“You don’t have to hate her for me” 

She looks at you, unsure. 

“I like her too, really, _for him_ ” 

When you return to the table everything is back to normal. You take out your phone then, as soon as whatever Hotch and Beth are talking about, reaches your ears. 

_Saya_ _: Where’s Derek?_

Penelope on the other side of the table looks at you then at the empty spot beside her, then types back. 

_Penelope: off to_ _meet some of his pals_ _maybe. Why?_

There’s already people on the dance floor, the alcohol in their system guiding them, the dimmed lights shielding them. 

_Saya_ _: just felt like dancing_

_Penelope:_ _Oooooooo_

_Penelope: I will find you that man as soon as I can_

The team had never seen you dance either, not that there were many occasions to show your dancing skills, or lack thereof, in the job. But even when clubbing with the girls, or with the team on the rarest of events – it didn’t last long. And it helped that they were drunk out of their minds before it happened. Thus, Penelope’s enthusiasm at the topic. It takes long before it happens. Spencer is already back at his spot, talking to Will and JJ over what Henry’s been up to, and you enjoy the distraction. Then Derek stops behind you, attracting the attention of Hotch and Beth as well. He bows and holds out his palm, showing off. 

“I heard my services were requested. Shall we dance?” he shoots a wink at Penelope who chuckles and starts chanting your name. Now, the entire table looks your way, thanks to them both. Emily and JJ join into the chant too and you wipe your hands on a towel, before standing up. You give a little curtsy of your own, making the entire team laugh, and take his hand. 

“Let’s show them how it’s done” 

“With pleasure” 

He leads you to the dance floor, not even a classical music on the background like your little play-act had been. Yet an indie folk for swaying. You plant a hand on his shoulder, while the other is wrapped around his. His other hand is loosely on your lower back, not really touching you, a respectful distance away. He swings you around delicately and you’re impressed really by his poise. You tell him so. 

He smiles, “Thought I was only brains and hard muscles?” 

His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and you roll your eyes. 

“It’s not worse than what you’ve called me” 

“And what did I call you, Saya?” 

He feigns ignorance and you know. 

“That I’m an alien” 

He chuckles, and swings you again. The hem of your dress opens up wide, fluttering away as he motions you around. 

“I didn’t say that” 

“Right,” you correct, “a vampire” 

“Hey, a little color looks good on you. You don’t have to be a robot every time” 

Before you can respond to that though, he twists you again, making you do a pirouette in his hands, now holding yours. 

“I wear color!” you reply, and he shakes his head. 

“Saya,” he says softly, “I’m just saying you don’t have to be so closed off from us.” 

You open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out – the shock from his words too much. 

“It’s okay if you show a part of yourself sometimes” 

“Sometimes” you repeat stupidly, and he laughs again. 

“I’m not telling you to show up at the office dressed like Penelope”, when he spins you again, your eyes land on Penelope. She’s sitting still at the table, her mouth agape at something Emily’s telling her. She’s got a huge bow on the top of her hair, colored in the loudest tone of red – her whole outfit makes her look like a Christmas present. 

“And it’s good to detach yourself from the work that we do.” 

This time, back at the starting position, you have to force your feet to sway to the beat, his words striking a chord. 

“I know that Aria made you feel less, and it’s part of the reason why you have to prove yourself all the time” 

_He had caught onto that?_ You look away not wanting to feel this _seen_ at this moment. 

“And that you had to grow up faster than your peers” 

You look at him sharply – you hadn’t expected him to remember that detail from your life. Not when you’d said it so casually over whisky, one night. How your father being away for work all the time had forced you to take care of your siblings and your mother too, a role that you took upon yourself. 

“I know you also haven’t stopped thinking about Reus” he says, voice lower so only you can hear it. 

“Are you profiling me?” you spit out and he shakes his head. 

“I’m just saying things you told me once” 

He leans in a bit closer, “If I were to profile you, I’d tell you there’s _something_ on your mind right this moment. Worrying you.” 

You freeze, hoping that Penelope hadn’t told him anything about Hotch. Because it’s not true, of course. You let go, crossing your arms over your chest, refusing to dance with him. He laughs, a whole-belly laugh. It’s ridiculous how he’s so good at it, you thought sometimes. Such a good profiler, and in turn, such a good friend. 

“No, there’s not” you lie for the umpteenth time this night. He grabs at your wrists, still latched together. 

“Saya, I know you”, he repeats again, “You’re surrounded by profilers at all times. We all do. But we are your friends too.” 

You let him bring your hands down again, and he sways you to the music, still trying to keep up the pretense of dancing. 

“I’m just saying,” he says, gentler than before, “you’ve been shutting us out for about a month now. You’ve retreated back into yourself. And you can talk to us, you know” 

You look down at his shoes, feeling the sting of tears at your eyes, threatening to come out. It's the panic attacks, you think, the alcohol, this foreign environment too. And the fact that you don’t feel like you belong with the team anymore – too _alien_ to be in the Bureau, too. But most of all, it’s because you haven’t stopped thinking about Reus, and catching him – and that overpowers every other thing. How were you supposed to continue normally, lying to their faces, pretending him running away was fine when he'd almost killed Hotch too? 

“You can talk to _me”_ he says, narrowing the distance, shielding you from anyone that can see your face and notice the way you’re trying to hold it together. 

“Is there something worrying you?” 

You nod, not knowing what else to do, no words seeming to come out. Derek grants you a tentative smile. 

“Okay - what is it? Health worry-?” he waits for you to make a sign. You shake your head. 

“Family?” 

You shake your head again. 

“Uh, friends?” No, again. 

He pauses, thinking it over. 

“Career? Love life?” 

You nod at the first one. He smiles again – that typical big toothy smile that only he does. 

“Which one?” You give him a once over, like _you would be the type_ to have an existential crisis over the second one. _Although, from tonight’s events_ – you shake your head, not letting your mind lead you there. 

“Okay, so career?” You nod again, surer and exhale sharply. 

He nods, pulling you in. 

“Saya, I know Aria was awful-” his hand at your back is light on your lower back, giving you space to pull away if needed. 

“Lord knows I’ve met my share of evil bosses, evil colleagues and just about everything. You see me, right?” He holds his arm at his sides, and you nod at that. 

“But you’re already in the team. You’re already a great profiler.” 

You turn your head to the side unsure. How are you supposed to tell him that you’ve been seriously considering transferring and Hotch’s offer, because of Reus? 

“Hotch knows it too – and he’s the hard ass” 

You wince at the mention of his name, hoping he doesn’t profile that too. Your eyes go automatically to where he’s sitting. His arm is over the shoulders of Beth’s chair, as she’s whispering something in his ear, her hand resting over his thigh, smiling ear to ear. You feel stupid to have desired to have become more to him, when he seemed unfazed over everything. And you feel even dumber over the fact you hadn’t spoken after his offer. 

“Not so sure of that” you mumble, but Derek catches it. 

“Saya, he’s practically begged Strauss to keep you here.” 

Your eyes go wide at that. _He begged to keep you in the BAU? Was he forced to give you that offer?_ But he said he was the one to recommend you for the job – from your experience and the relationship to Revi. Had it been a lie? You remember the context of your transferal to the BAU and how JJ had been practically forced to leave her spot for Pentagon. _But it couldn’t be the same thing._

“Yes, I overheard him and Rossi talking last week.” 

“What for?” 

He shrugs, “I do not know the entire details or the context, but it sounded pretty serious. First time I’ve seen him show any emotions in so long actually” he lets out a laugh at his own joke. 

He could have told you. He _should have._ Though his words to you that day – that he didn’t want you away from him and that he didn’t need to encourage you to accept the offer when he’d found out about you already searching for Reus– _should have been_ a sign. When you look at Hotch’s back, that sour taste is finally gone from your throat, replaced by a warmth that envelops the nape of your neck. You refocus on Derek’s words. 

“Except for tonight, of course” 

Your mind goes back to that first moment you’d seen him outside, opening the door for Beth. He’s never been this happy before – you realize with a shock. In your entire time of working at the BAU you’d never caught the man smiling for longer than 5 minutes, even that a Guinness record on its own. He had been shy around Beth, but showing her off too. He’d let go of the stern, frowning face he keeps on at all times at the BAU. Maybe, you realize, as you feel a tinge of sadness too, this is the real and complete Hotch. Not just the man you’d come to respect and known as a unit chief. He is happy – and that’s all that matters. 

“Derek,” you say, feeling more self-confident, and assured. “I’m considering a new job placement” 

His smile is wiped off his face then, as if you’d thrown a freezing glass of water over him. 

“What? Why?” 

You shrug, not really knowing the full answer to it. It’s a tie between the desire to find Reus and bring him to justice, and David pushing you to achieve that, coupled with Hotch’s offer and not having to leave the FBI completely. 

“Because Rossi convinced me to?” you offer lamely and he looks at you dead-serious. 

“That stupid Italian man-” 

“Derek” you cut him off, “it’s not his fault” He still looks at you incredulously. 

“I swear to you it’s not”, you reach and fold his hands into yours, the two of you had never been this openly touchy, but the alcohol always made the entire team affectionate towards one another. You by default, too. 

“It’s just been on my mind. I don’t hate working here. It's literally been the best experience of my life. But I have yet to face the mistakes I made.” 

Your eyes go to Hatch’s figure again – you hated how your eyes, mind, even your body sometimes, did that unconsciously. 

“And I need to grow after what happened with Reus. I _have to_ find him.” 

He looks defeated now, and before you can blink, he crushes you into a tight hug. Morgan’s drunken hugs were the best and the most calming ones – like a huge teddy bear enfolding you at once. This one felt different though, a lot of emotion behind it. You felt it at the way his arms stayed folded around you, his head atop of yours. 

“Derek” you let out, “you’re crushing me” 

“Shut up” he says and you feel his voice hum in your chest, “It’s not going to be the same without you, _birdie”_

The reappearance of your first nickname from the BAU makes you teary too, emotional as well. You don’t say it aloud – how the team had all become a second family. The first notice of it was Emily’s death, albeit fake, leaving you torn apart. And you don’t think you can go through it again, and you don’t want to witness it. Not ever. You latch your hands at the back of his shirt, hugging him tighter than before. 

“You’re crushing _me_ now” he says, a loud laugh making its way out of his throat and you feel it too against his pressed chest. 

“Shut up” you say, “Don’t ruin the moment” 

\- 

The dance with Derek leaves you vulnerable, too many emotions on the surface to know what to do with them at once. But him asking you to dance with him brings an onslaught of suits at your table – as Emily would describe them. Men your age, and then some older ask you politely to dance. So, you do dance. One after another, stupidly trying to get yourself distracted from your table, and from the emotions still lingering. And it is nice, despite not remembering a face after another one comes forward. So, you dance the night away, not sitting down at your table for a second. The alcohol in your veins fuels you with more energy and stubbornness. When Hotch and Beth leave your table, you plop down back at your seat, smile so wide in your face that it feels drawn on. You use a towel to dap the sweat away from your forehead and neck and use the break to relax your feet. You kick your heels under the table. 

“So, what’s the conclusion?” 

David Rossi asks behind you as he takes Hotch’s chair at your side. 

“Any of those men on your list?” 

He seems to be the only one still yet in control despite the drinks he’s consuming. 

“I don’t even remember half of their faces” you admit and he chuckles at that. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“Onto the next one?” you ask and he laughs. 

“Now I see why you don’t drink in our outings” 

You raise an eyebrow at that. 

“You’d be Derek number 2” he raises two fingers up, your grin still on your face. 

“Should I be worried?” he asks then, and he turns Hotch’s chair so it’s directed to the dancing stage. You follow his eyesight to Penelope, Emily and Derek jumping around, a reluctant Spencer with them, dancing arm in arm. Hotch and Beth are nearby, dancing together, and it’s hard to watch him dance for the first time – happiness pouring out of him with not so much of an effort. When he spins Beth, he turns too, his eyes finding yours. They linger, as do David’s eyes, on you. You shake your head, breaking the eye contact first. 

“Nope” you state, remembering the discussion you had at his house not long ago. 

“Did you make a decision, then?” 

The talk with Derek had convinced you even more, and maybe so did Hotch and Beth, unknowingly. 

“I’m accepting the offer to join the joint task force. That’s the only way I can track him” 

You don’t say his name aloud but you know he knows – he’d known you hadn’t stopped thinking about him. 

“I understand” he says, and he looks pensive. “I hope you can find the answers you’re looking for.” 

Another man in a suit, that you swear you don’t recognize or remember if you’d danced with already, makes its way to your table. 

“Ah, here comes another unlucky fellow” 

David mutters and watches as the man now at your side holds out a hand. You ignore his words and focus on the man instead, younger than you, but tall and lanky, so you don’t overthink it. 

“Can I offer you this dance?” 

You put your hand on his open palm, feeling David’s eyes on you. 

\- 

The continuous mixing of alcohol with dancing stops working after some time. What before made you feel unstoppable, swinging from someone’s arms to another’s, and in control, transforms, makes you feel sticky with sweat, and your skin uncomfortably hot. Your feet hurt more than anything, still dragging them with your heels on. Now, standing inside a toilet stall, sitting over the cover to catch a breath, your eyes shutting and opening as if in slow motion, you realize how drunk you are. The kind of dizziness that makes you feel like anything is possible, and even struck up conversations with strangers like you had done mere moments ago. You feel fucking beautiful, despite it all. Penelope’s voice from the bathrooms shakes it off. 

“I can’t believe Emily is dancing with O’Hara” she says loudly, and someone’s snicker follows behind. You smile at her name. She was dancing with Ken when you left the ballroom for the bathrooms, and they kept smiling at one another like they were the only ones on the know of a secret. 

“I’m glad she is” JJ speaks, recognizing her voice right away. 

“Oh, me too! They’d be so great together! Their little babies would be genetically perfect, and smart as hell!” 

“Come on, Pen. Let’s see how it goes first, then decide on a wedding.” 

“Yes, yes” 

You stand up then, but the room spins. You latch onto the door handle out of necessity. 

“Speaking about love being in the air”, Penelope starts, her voice cheery, “I love Beth!” 

You take a breath, staring intently at the door handle. You had told her not to hate her, after all. 

“I’m so happy boss man is finally getting some loving, you know? He’s been through so much with Haley and Jack. He deserves the world _. But I’m sad too.”_

There’s a lingering silence between the two of them and your heart jumps to your throat. _Did JJ know how you felt about Hotch, too?_ After a beat, everything goes back to normal. 

_“_ I’m happy for him too, Pen.” JJ says softly and the voices quiet down but you don’t hear the doors open and close, signaling they’re gone. 

“Shshsh” Jennifer whispers, “he _does_ deserve to be happy. And I’m glad he’s opened up to someone.” 

_You too, are happy for him_. You blink and suddenly there’s tears down your face. It’s a surprise to you too, but you don’t make an attempt to wipe them away. 

“Hopefully, that means we get some holidays” Penelope says and the mood between the two women changes, both erupting in loud laughter. 

“God, I hope so.” 

“Come on, I don’t want to miss Emily and O'Hara kissing” 

“Pen!” the other woman reprimands but her tone is humorous. 

The door opens and closes with a loud shut and you stand there. So, you are _the only one_ feeling this way. You clean up your face in the mirror and make it out to the hall. There’s a door open to the ballroom, and you can make out just a part of the dancing stage, nobody familiar on it. Your legs take you to the opposite direction and you stop in front of the exit doors of the building. _Are you really about to leave right now, without saying goodbye? Walk out in the freezing cold and take a cab to nowhere?_ The door opens as a security guard walks in. The wind makes its way to your exposed skin and you shiver. _And without a coat? How fucking melodramatic._ The guard looks you up and down, like you’re a ghost. You walk back towards the ballroom, your feet heavier with each step. You pass the clothes check, empty but lights still on, a small beeping noise coming from it. Sounds familiar to a Gameboy. You go back – that is a Gameboy. Leaning over the table you stick your head inside. The girl from before – you scramble your brain for her name. _You’d just seen it. What’s her name?_ In a small space between two coat hangers piled on with clothes, you spot her figure on a couch, her legs kicked up in front of another piece of furniture. Her back is against the wall behind, and she’s playing with a Gameboy. A small smile perches on your lips. She must sense your presence because she looks up. She raises an eyebrow. 

“Hey” you say softly, and she puts down the Gameboy. 

“Hi” she replies. She looks you up and down, and you’re sure she can see your tiredness. “The star of the show is taking a break?” 

“What?” 

“The star” she repeats slower, like you don’t know the meaning of the words, “taking a break” 

You’re still not sure what she’s referencing. 

“-from dancing?” 

You pause, not knowing how to answer. 

“Thought you were supposed to guard the coats at all times?” 

She stands up then, “I take breaks from time to time”, leaves the toy on the couch she was sitting on, “And the doors were open” She stops before you, a good distance between. 

“You were pretty hard to miss” 

“Thanks?” you offer and she crosses her arms over her chest. 

“I didn’t compliment you” 

“Right” you say. 

“Right”, she repeats. Then after a pause, “You look like you need to sit” 

“I do” you admit. 

That’s all she needs to hear – she grabs hold of the table and pushes it towards you, making a space between it and the side wall. You go through it as she steps back. The coats check is bigger than you’d predicted, much larger than your dorm room years ago, walls painted burgundy and several plush black couches along the walls, while more than 10 coat hangers are lined in the middle, clothes piled over them. You see her sitting spot in full. There’s a large leather sofa on its right, previously hidden from all the coats. 

“This is sitting paradise” you say turning to her. She fixes the table back, and nods. 

“I know. You can take whichever you want” 

You choose the sofa. A moan escapes you as your body feels the soft cushions below. Then you kick off your heels, and bring your legs up. 

“Holy fuck” 

A laugh comes out from under the carpet you think, and your eyes pop open. You sit up. 

“What was that?” 

The girl pinches the bridge of her nose. “I have an assistant. Don’t freak out” 

“Assistant?” 

Another giggle and your eyes trail every inch of the floor – _had you gone crazy?_

“Emma, come out please” 

A child, not older than 10 gets up from underneath all the clothes in the middle. She’s got strawberry blonde hair, a small pink bow on her head, and dressed in pink dress and white tights. She stands up and laughs at you again. 

“She said a bad word” she points a small finger at you. 

“She didn’t mean it, Emma” 

Your eyes must be coming out of your forehead, because you still can’t believe it. 

“but she said it” 

“Is that-” _a child?_ You want to ask, but that’s a dumb question. So you opt for: 

“Is that legal?” 

The girl, Emma, looks at you with a huge grin, still reeling from your curse word. 

“Look, I’m just taking care of my sister. And she’s quiet most of the time” 

You glance at the little girl again. “Unless a bad word is involved” 

She nods, “I didn’t have where else to take her” 

You shrug, she’s fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, nervous and worried you might get her fired. 

“I’m not judging” 

She seems unsure, but she comes back to her spot. “Okay” 

You turn your attention to her sister. 

“So, how old are you?” 

She holds up 7 fingers, and her eyes drop to your shoes by your feet. 

“What happened to your shoes?” 

_Hell. “_ Dancing” 

“You know how to dance?” 

The girl sitting by you, whose name you still can’t bring up, smiles at that. 

“Yes, I think so” 

“I do too. Do you want to watch me dance?” 

“Uh-” you’re tired to the bone but her energy is contagious somehow, so you just nod yes. 

Emma starts bopping her head back and forth, long curls ending up everywhere, with no music or rhythm. Her sister, on the couch, laughs. 

“At least, wait for the music” she takes out her phone and puts on a kid’s song, vaguely familiar to you. 

You lean back to the wall, letting yourself rest at last. No worries to hide your expressions or mannerisms. The girl holds out a bottle of water before you, loud music still playing on her phone, her sister still dancing in her own way. 

“For your hangover” 

_God, what an angel._ You take the bottle and drink. Yes, this is the perfect space on earth at the moment. 

\- 

You don’t know how long you’ve been here, but it’s a sign that it’s been _long_ when people start coming by, requesting their coats. You’re watching Emma as she plays on the iPad, after begging you for a full 2 minutes that she needed to show you a book about princesses. After watching Louise (you remember her name when you're a bit more sober) send back at least 20 coats, you start up a discussion on getting a job as a receptionist – requirements, expertise, etc. Your feet don’t hurt as before, and you’re not dizzy anymore. If anything, both of them had made you retrieve your energy. 

“Can I take the other one?” You spring up, barefoot, feeling steady. It had been a while since someone came for their coats, and she’s back with her sister – arguing about nothing. 

“Be my guest” she says and she sits back on her couch, hugging her sister close to her chest. 

“Yes!” you raise a fist.

“ _Kind_ _madame_ _or monsieur_ , how may I assist you this evening?” but you’re turned to them, and make a curtsy just for show. Emma giggles at the move, Louise rolls her eyes. You do another curtsy, picking the hem of your skirts with your fingers and thumbs. 

“I’m already an expert” you say and Emma laughs again, making you smile. 

“Saya?” 

You whip around fast – the man you’d avoided the entire night before you, on the other side of the table. He’s got a small key in his right hand, for the number of his coat. Yet his surprised face is focused on yours. 

“Hotch” you say, finally. Without your heels, you’re shorter than him again, and you feel smaller. He notices it too, his eyes dropping to your legs, taking in your bare feet. 

“Hey” you mutter softly. It’s just one word but it feels charged. 

His gaze returns to your face, and there’s _that_ smile again - broad and charming, the one you’d not wanted to see all evening. 

“I was wondering where you’d hid” 

Your cheeks heat up, suddenly embarrassed. You hadn’t talked to him for what feels like forever, both avoiding the other with great effort. Louise and Emma are chatting behind you and he notes them too, his eyebrows slightly going up. Then another fast shift – a nod to himself like _of course, you’d be here_ . Nothing leaves your mouth yet. Up close, _here_ , he looks different than from under the lights of the ballrooms, because you hadn’t allowed yourself to stare at his face. A dimpled smile and relaxed face, the collar of his shirt popped open for air. His navy suit is perfect for his complexion and his dark hair. 

“The stage shut down after you left” he says and you get closer to the table, letting it be the only distance between the two of you. 

Words finally make their way out your throat. “Really?” 

He looks down for a second, shoving his hands in his pockets, pushing the sides of his jacket away and behind him. He nods, and you can’t help but smile, not when his is infectious. 

“The band refused to play music” 

You laugh at the ridiculousness of that. 

“Oh, they did?” you draw out, crossing your hands over your chest. 

“Yes, there were protests here and there” He says it matter-of-factly, not even a playful look coming to join. 

_He’d begged Strauss to keep you in the team,_ Derek had said to you. _He wants you in the team._ You feel hot, like you’re back dancing and your chest swells. 

“Didn’t work?” you ask. 

“No.” he shakes his head. “Felt quite empty.” 

You roll your shoulders lazily, “I needed some rest” 

“Didn’t like the attention?” 

And you could lie, but you know _he knows you_ , knows even the simplest of things you seemed to think you hid very well, knows _even when_ you lie to yourself. 

“Not much, no” you confirm and he smiles. 

As he opens his mouth, wanting to say something else, more people shuffle out of the ballroom. Including JJ, Will and Beth. They stay by the doors, and before Hotch asks, you go to look for their coats. You don’t need a number or a name to remember what they’d looked like and since Louise had separated them by initials, you find them quite easily – his large black coat, and a woman’s gray one. You hold them out and his hands brush against yours as he takes them. The simple contact making you retreat quickly your hands and glance back into his eyes. 

“Thanks” he murmurs, the word loaded with something else left unsaid.

You nod, reading it in his eyes. He’d lied to you about the offer coming from him – that is now certain. And you can’t really blame him and be hostile anymore. There was no reason for it. Yet a part of you is still broken. It’s the first time you can actually look at him, and really see the effects of Beth. He doesn’t depart either, the coats slung over his elbow, gaze unyielding. _You want him to be happy, you really, really do._ Penelope is right, he deserves the world. And not just for what he’s been through. 

_“_ She seems nice” you say, and immediately want to kick yourself. _Nice,_ that’s the only word you could come up with? _Nice_ , is what people say when they don’t know what to say. And maybe you’d like her too, in other scenarios, if you’d met in completely different universes and circumstances. She is cute, though. 

“And pretty cute” you add and Hotch smiles, shy once again. 

“Yes, she is” 

That effectively lands a blow to your heart, sucking out all of your air and strength. You lean on the table, your palms over the silk, white tablecloth, for support. Not minding the way your dress hangs lower by the change of posture. Or the way his eyes trail down your figure, taking in your red dress once more. 

“You deserve to be happy, Hotch” you say in almost a whisper. Tonight’s drinks have cut off all reluctance, or overthinking before you say something. You’re even bolder. Penelope’s words in the bathroom replay in your mind. _The loving._

“And _you know_ what they say the best solution to stress is.” you add in a playful tone. “It’ll do you _good.”_

His gaze drops momentarily to your moving lips, before blinking it away. 

“Have a good night” you say and he nods, flabbergasted. 

“You too” he says and you watch him leave and reach Beth. He seems distracted for a minute but he shakes it off and opens up her coat slipping it over her shoulders _Always, a gentleman_. Their eyes linger on one another, like it’s a stupid romance movie. 

You let out a small pained growl, but remember not to actually curse – not with Emma around. 

“You okay?” Louise asks, eyebrows furrowed in worry. 

“No” you say, not lying for the first time this evening. 

_You_ _love_ _Hotch._

“Not at all” 

She simply nods at that, and takes over the reception. Over on the sofa, where you'd been sitting for the past hour, the screen of your phone lights up with a new notification - a confirmation to the transferal.

\---- 


	15. Unspoken Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After your transferal you run into an old friend, and realize quickly and suddenly that there is still something lingering there.  
> So you make up any excuse you can - both of you do, just to see one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song by Joe Hisashi, aka Howl's Moving Castle soundtrack  
> (skipped some parts bcs i was lazy to write filling but hopefully this still makes senseee)  
> just quick fyi i kno nth of any of the organizations i mention and idk how they even work so just close an eye and i swear it will make sense to u as well

**35 days after leaving**

The new job and transferal brought on a whirlwind of things you needed to take care of. From a mountain of paperwork Strauss required you to fill in – to keep the FBI up to date with the search as well – to the actual moving and getting accustomed to the new people and environment. Having so many organizations involved into one meant you had to get used with the way they operated as well. And being surrounded by new faces made it difficult but what you hadn’t expected was the BAU team to still be there for you. Penelope messaged you frequently – all too used to having you still in the same region. And Reid and Emily took advantage of it too. David Rossi as well with his many messages. It wasn’t the same as seeing them every day, especially because scheduled plans would get easily cancelled from new cases – for them, and trips to Europe or elsewhere to track a lead – for you. 

\--- 

You know you probably shouldn’t be here, and it wasn’t really allowed since you had given up your passkeys, badge and any identification necessary to make it past the entrance door in the lobby. Yet it is a Friday, and 2 hours after closing time and some part of you – that very dramatic and tragic part that told you that you miss them, your makeshift family of 2 years, - just wanted to see them again. _Whoever_ you could. So, when you get out of the large elevator leading up to the floor of the BAU, and you find the corridor dimly lit, you try not to look too disappointed. The door far ahead, leading to Penelope’s office is half closed and dark. That should be a sign, you think, that none of the team is here, when even Penelope isn’t. 

You make a right then, towards the bullpen, to the reason you entered the building - Reid. The office is empty as you’d predicted: the desk light of Spencer’s corner being the only one lit up. You make a beeline to his desk, your heels the only noise echoing in the tiled floors together with the low hum of the printers at the entrance. Written papers are scattered open across it, his bag hanged around his seat, and blue pens on the ground. Not an unusual sight. You take the phone from the back pocked of your handbag, slung across your shoulders and pass the dark coat you took off in the elevator to your left hand and dial Spencer’s phone number with your right. A low ring, almost inaudible, comes from underneath a large stack of papers in the half-opened drawer at your right. You let out a sigh, knowing already. You take the phone out, an old Nokia model that doesn’t even have wireless built in, let alone internet data, and see your name flash across the screen. You turn your own phone off, and soon enough his flashes with 7 missed calls- 3 of which are from you, and 2 text messages – also from you. Maybe next time, you think now, logically sounder would be to mail him by post to reach him. Spencer never used technology unless there was no other solution presentable. His call to you had been short – _I'm about to get off work, want to catch a movie at Malleus at 7pm?_ And yet he never specified when and where to meet, and you should have asked him. Your fault, at that point. But he was at work and you had been too when he called you, so you both didn’t give in to unnecessary pleasantries, and subsequently forgotten to hash out the details. 

“Saya?” You spin quite fast at the familiar voice, your right knee almost bumping into the corner of Spencer’s desk. 

“Hotch”, you let out, and he’s on the stairs, few steps below his office. And in that fast pace of his, he descends and comes to stand before you with papers in hand, eyebrows raised. He’s not disheveled per se, but his tie is loosened, his suit jacket’s off, and the sleeves of his white button-up rolled up to his elbows. He’s got a pen stuck between his pointing finger and middle one, and he blinks slowly, as if not quite comprehending the sight of you. 

“Sorry,” you mumble out, and you feel embarrassed, and you quickly try to cover the low skirt you’re wearing with your coat, as you brush your hands down, with both phones in hand, feeling improper all of the sudden. 

But he still manages to take a good look of you, his eyes scanning your figure like you’re still fiction. 

“I still remembered the passcodes for the elevators and the door”, although you’d found the last one open but you don’t tell him that. His demeanor switches to one you’d grown accustomed over the years – serious but charming. 

“I shouldn’t have-” you’re mumbling and cannot stop. 

And before your mind can process what’s happening, he closes the distance, arms enveloping you and bringing you tight to his chest in a quick motion. His cologne fills your senses, your cheek presses against his front, feeling the warmth from his body. Your hands hold you steady against him, then react just as fast to loop around his sides. It’s such a surprising thing to do, you can’t help but think, to hug him. To feel him this close when it’s been a month. It feels longer. 

“Please” he begs, effectively shutting you up, as you feel his voice against your ear. Your emotions swell up at once, back at full force – never mind the distance and the lack of communication that followed after your transfer. But he lets you out of his hold just as fast. Steps back and a small smile dons his face, “it’s good to see you” 

The back of your neck heats up at that. You’re still shaken from the hug. 

“I came to see what the fuss was about” his right eyebrow shoots up, and you recall Spencer’s phone and his ringtone. 

“Right, sorry”, you say. You place Reid’s phone down at his desk and Hotch blinks again with that look on, his profiler face. 

“I was waiting for Spencer but he didn’t respond”. 

You feel shy under his scrutinizing gaze at whatever he must be deducing. From your arrival, your actions, even your outfit. That you might even be dating his colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid. It is evening after all. Suddenly, you feel the need to clarify, so you’re back to talking fast. 

“As usual of course. There’s this French movie playing at Malleus, a retelling of a German story of the 1800s. I’m-” _rambling_ , you think. The heat has spread to your cheeks, “one of the few who speaks French, German and into old movies” you say with an awkward half a laugh, “Definitely, the only one who fits that profile from his contact list.” 

Hotch chuckles, amused, “Obviously”. And you feel relieved at his expression, tired and entertained. He looks _attractive_ as always, just more exhausted than normal. You gravitate closer to him. 

“He’s probably on the roof” He says, his tone of voice light. “Said something about bird watching and the appearance of a large bird, native of Virginia, and how experts often fail to notice the relevance of sunsets in bird flights” 

It’s your turn to act surprised. “Wow”. But you’re not really. Even though Spencer Reid was notorious over his info dumps, they never went unnoticed by the team. Not even when they teased him mercilessly about them. 

“That sounds super serious” 

“It is”, he says, and his smile rests on his face, unmoving. His under-eye circles are deeper, more fleshed out than when you’d last seen him – the day he’d hugged you goodbye. Though his posture seems more relaxed. A few dark hairs fall over his left eyebrow, his collar popped open and half up – his late-night-working-over-papers at the BAU look. A wave of nostalgia hits you then, as deep as when you’d met Emily not long ago. Yet not as familiar as this. You shake your head and take a quick look around the bullpen. 

“I gave them the day off”, he says following your gaze, knowing your hidden hopes of running into any of them. “We returned yesterday from a big case.” He says with a slight rise of eyebrows. “Thought they needed some air”. 

“And you didn’t?” the words fall from your lips, without thinking. He laughs at that, and shows you the papers on his hands. 

“Not as much as these reports needed me.” 

“Debatable”, you tease. “How did David let you off so easily?” 

If he’s surprised by your lack of formal addressing to Rossi, he doesn’t show it. 

“It’s a long weekend. He must have had something in mind for the both of you. Or _other_ people.” Such as Beth. 

You’d tried to ask the girls about him, the best you could in your own weird way without letting them know about it. Asking _“so how’s everyone? Everyone still working hard as ever?”_ But not even Penelope took your bait and got it to mean _everyone_ as _Hotch, specifically._ There’s a question in your eyes that he catches right away. 

“I answer only to myself now,” he says and you read the implied words in there too – that Beth is no longer in the picture. You try not to let your expression change – that was almost at the same time you’d left. So, _they broke up._ His gaze bores into you, and you try not to falter. 

“But Rossi did have a plan.” and you smile, victoriously. Still a profiler. “I had a bargaining chip up my sleeve.” 

“Really?” your voice rises up a pitch, “What? Did you catch him going back to the second or third wife?” 

“Ah no” he sucks in a breath, disappointed, “that would have earned me an entire year of free time from him, I think.” 

The laugh that escapes your throat is full of heart, and an easiness you didn’t think you’d ever get back to. Not with him. Not after the chaos of the months before your departure. Not when you thought how you’d probably never run into him again. You inhale, struck by the realization from deep within you. 

“So, what is it?” 

“I'm afraid I can’t say.” 

“Damn, that must be good then.” 

He nods, and you feel daring now, shift the coat to one hand, folding it in half so your legs actually show. It’s almost immediate, the way his eyes trail down your figure again, then back up to your face. 

“How are you adjusting?” he asks, a question way too familiar coming from him. “Emily told me about your coffee meeting” 

You nod, though you think she mustn’t have told him that much. Given how a lot of it was Emily apologizing profusely over your sudden departure, and for ignoring you before her fake death. All of which, you’d convinced her truthfully, hadn't been her fault. 

“It’s been good. Difficult to build up the chemistry with the team from the start”, you say and before he pulls an Emily on you and starts apologizing over his own guilt, you continue, “Feels a bit like my beginnings with Agent Aria. The adjustment period helps though.” You shift, despite yourself, at the sudden switch of serious tone in the conversation. You don’t want to talk shop with him. 

“How long is the adjustment period?” he asks. 

“Ranges from 15 days to 2 months, they said. It’s never fixed, and one can’t predict it since it depends on various outside factors. And the demands for field agents, since I'm only a consultant and liaison.” 

He nods, his face serious. “I see” 

“We don’t have a Penelope Garcia in our midst to helps me settle in, unfortunately.” 

He nods at that. “Very unfortunate” 

The soft incessant noises from the printers and the warm yellow lighting of a semi-dark office, and the heat too, a bit too high whenever Spencer is the only one left – they all give you a sense of comfort and coziness. Something incomparable to the offices at Interpol. His presence too, you think, but don’t let that thought go off on a tangent just yet, - that must be a factor too. 

“I’m glad that the adjustment period exists, to be honest” and you don’t think twice over why or how easily you open up to him. You hadn’t done that with Emily either, the one who’s actually accustomed to the Interpol and its operations. 

“There’s quite a lot of bureaucracies I need to get through and become familiar with, before being dispatched with the team out in the field” 

Hotch nods, knowingly. “You wouldn’t believe how many regulations and laws there are about agreements between countries. And I thought that only the Bureau was flooded with institutional mumbo jumbo.” 

He lets out a sigh, “I can imagine.” 

“It’s a bit unnerving” you admit. “And it’s totally beyond my capacities, but it’s necessary to know them all.” 

“I see "he says and without a second passing he adds, “you can always contact me if you have questions about bureaucratic things. After Gideon left,” their unit chief before Aaron Hotchner became the leader of the BAU, “I had to take on quite a lot of responsibilities. More menial and time-consuming than I could ever predict.” He waves the papers still at his hand, as evidence, “So I know how difficult the shift is.” 

“Yeah,” you let out, a smile playing across your lips, and admittedly taken aback by his polite offer that feels much more than only that. It feels like an open door. 

“If it’s not too much of a hassle -” and he waves his free hand at that, “I think I will gladly take you up on your offer”. 

“Please do”, he says, mirroring your smile. 

You try not to play the _please_ over in your mind like a tape recorder, but you can’t. 

“You still have my number, I assume?” his playful tone doesn’t go unnoticed, teasing you for breaking into the BAU. Yet your mind is stuck on the fact that he wants you to call, not email. 

A strange thought springs into your head. 

“That reminds me”, You sling your coat by your elbow, and shove your hand in your handbag, scrambling through the lipstick, your glasses, pens and papers and... 

“aha!” your business card, which you hold out to him. “Very official” 

He takes it, looks over both sides, his thumb pressed on corner of it, not covering your name and the new title, under the FBI logo. 

“You sure your offer isn’t some other bargaining chip?” you tease, and you dare take a step closer. Him scanning your very small business card with his large hands, fingertips pressed against the white paper brings new unexplored feelings to surface. 

“No comment” he draws out slowly, his eyebrow raised, looking down at you. 

And _fuck,_ if you don’t want to add something else to that, draw out another playful tease from him, but the thought of Spencer Reid barging in any minute, with that cool head of his and rational thoughts makes you maintain your logic too. 

“Well, if there’s any intel I can”, and you run out of breath from the proximity to him, “ _offer_ you” and his Adam's apple moves down as he swallows, “feel free to ask.” 

“I will” he says, and a pause passes between the two of you. Knowing, familiar. Precarious. You can’t tear your eyes away from his jawline, the rise of his cheekbones whenever he smiles. 

“-you won’t believe the evidence I caught this time!” Spencer’s voice rings out before his loud footsteps notify of his approaching form. You’re shaken out of your reverie, smiling as he comes into view. 

His hair is disheveled, from the wind you imagine, and he’s wearing a checkered blue vest over a white shirt. He’s gesticulating wildly and talking mostly to Hotch, explaining his findings since he apparently knows more about his latest obsession that you do. 

Hotch nods, following. Your card is now stuck amongst his other papers, as his full attention has shifted to Spencer. 

“Wow, that’s super interesting,” you admit, half following Spencer’s words. 

His face lights up as if just noticing you. 

“Hey!” and he makes his way to you, to his desk. 

“I let myself in-” you start to explain but you know he doesn’t care much. Just throws on his jacket then his bag over his shoulder, stuffing as much paper that is sprawled on his table inside it, as he keeps talking to Hotch. 

“-and that’s what I’ve deduced so far! Imagine if the biologists get this information too. That would lead to a breakthrough incomparable to what we know so far.” 

His cheeks flush just as fast. The layers, the coat, the heat still at maximum of the office, and also his enthusiasm. You hold out his phone for him to take and he shoves that into his bag too. You know though, that Hotch is fully attentive of whatever he’s saying. 

“Sounds incredible. So, you’re going to contact them now?” 

You throw Hotch a look at that question. If he does, you’re both stuck at the office for another 2 some hours at least, knowing he’d write at length his observations. 

Spencer shakes his head, “Monday” he says hurriedly, his voice coming from behind you. “We have to run to Malleus.” He squeezes your elbow affectionately, a quick simple note of gratitude for accepting his invitation at such short notice. 

Hotch smiles, not returning your look. “Have fun! And get some sleep, Spencer”. 

“Thanks, Hotch!” he returns with that same joyous tone of his. He turns to you, seemingly frozen, “you ready to go?” 

You nod quickly, glancing at him, “Mhm.” 

Hotch returns to walk back at his office, as you and Spencer walk to the exit. 

“Don’t stay up too late”, you call out at his back. That same goodbye you bit back when you were working at the BAU. His low chuckle is stuck in your brain for the rest of the night. 

\--------

“Hello?” 

Another ring, and you place a hand over the necklace hanging by your neck. Your fingers latch onto the dog tags, your wrist flush with your chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of your heart with it. You inhale deeply, hoping the anxiety you feel now will dissipate it. It’s uncharacteristic of you, to get nervous while making a simple call. Stupid even, that you’re considering to rehearse what you’re going to say before the other person on the line replies. But it doesn’t give you time to do so as they pick up on the third ring. 

“Hotchner”, comes the steady stern voice from the other side. 

“Hi?” Your voice goes up a pitch making it sound like a question. You clear your throat and your voice is back to normal. 

“Hi,” you repeat, your voice more controlled, “Hotch, it’s Saya Kuroki.” 

Not sure why you add your surname that rapidly, a default reaction from your job, but you don’t want to dwell on it. 

“Saya, hey!” He replies cheerily, his voice switching too, “how do you do?” he asks and you hear a car door slam shut on the background. 

“Um, good, thank you. How are you?” 

You hear shuffling from the other side and a good 10 seconds pass with no reply. 

“Am I catching you on a bad time? Sorry!” 

“No. Hang on” his voice seems distant, as if he’d left the phone somewhere. 

More ruffling, and then the phone bumps, from one hand to another, then his voice comes out clear again. 

“Sorry, I just picked up some groceries” 

“Ah,” your mind pauses for a split second, imagining Hotch wearing a hoodie and sweats and just dragging a cart in front of him as he looks for cereal. Why is cereal the one thing in your mind right now?

“Sorry,” you apologize once more, “I, uh, am at work.” you let out and then clarify in the worst way possible. 

‘I am super late on this important submission for tomorrow, where, uh…” you look down at the desk in front of you, picking up the form that’s been killing you for a whole 3 hours. 

“It’s report I have to fill in on FBI bureaucracies. It’s a case that is being taken over from the FBI and they gave me the responsibility since, _you know_. And I have to send this in before tomorrow.” 

You wait for him to hang up, maybe even reprimand you too before he does so, on how negligent you are to delay work. And to leave it so late. 

“What form is it?” He asks. 

“Uh, wait…” you pick up the form and read the title, the number just on the left. “Form 274/B” 

“Ah” he breathes in, “that’s a difficult one, but it’s doable.” 

Hope springs at you, fast at his words. 

“Really?” 

“Of course” he says, his tone lighter. 

“So there is hope for me” 

He chuckles and repeats, “yes indeed” 

“Ah, thanks” you lean back against your seat, your shoulders not as heavy as before. 

“Are you about to get off work?” 

You look up to the clock hanging over the door of your office, marking 10minutes before 6. Might as well lie. 

“Yes in a bit, I guess” 

“Good. I need some time just to take the food back but I can probably meet you around 6.30 at Nicola Café on Washington street.” 

Your heart jumps to your throat, that same anxiety of the beginning back again. 

“You know where that is?” 

The little coffee shop David had mentioned once and gotten you all unprompted croissants from, on a random Monday morning. Quite close to David’s house and you think now, maybe even to Hotch’s by the looks of it. 

“Yes, yes I remember” 

“So, we can look it over together and you can submit it tonight.” 

“Right” you nod even though he can’t see you. Hotch, ever the workaholic. 

“Thanks so much” 

“Of course," he says just as easily, “I’ll see you in thirty. “ 

“See you” 

\-- 

You feel like a teenager. After hanging up you grab your bag and scurry to the toilets to check yourself in the mirror. You’re wearing a suit, dark tone of violet that in bad lighting – like the ones from the women’s toilets at the offices – looks like a washed up black. You bring your hands up, refolding the suit collar properly over your collarbones with your fingertips, then scoff at your own reflection. You look way too formal, like you’d gone back to the time in Dallas with Aria. Not like that is a bad thing per se, but it feels weird, having Hotch see this new part of your life. You turn to stare at your face, the dark circles underneath your eyes not hiding the stress of the last few days of work, and you chuck it off to being a hopeless cause. _Who cares, really, on how you look?_ Not Hotch, that’s who. You check the bag again, making sure the famous form is where it’s supposed to be and make your way out of the building. 

The coffee shop is quiet, normal to the 6:35pm mark of the clock right across from you, and there’s only an old couple sitting on the other corner of the building, and a group of teenagers hidden by the screen of their laptops on the other side. You look at your phone again, and motion for the waitress as she passes by you. 

“Yes, sugar?” 

“Could I have a refill, please?” 

“Absolutely!” she smiles back and goes back to bartending. 

The interiors of the shop are a dull brown and red mix, vibrant at day time, and normal when sunlight would illuminate it but now, with the cold lighting of the ceilings, and the white lampposts of the street outside, they make your head ache a little. A light bell rings behind you, the same one of the doors loudly proclaiming a new client has entered. The waitress brings you the coffee you’d requested and her worried eyes scan you as you pinch the bridge of your noise. 

“You sure you don’t want an herbal tea? They have caffeine too and would do you well with that headache.” 

You smile at her kindly, and wrap your hands to the warm coffee cup in front of you. 

“No, thank you.” 

“Okay, well, if you do later, you know where to find me” 

“Thanks” you reply as you take a tentative sip of the coffee – still blistering hot and your tongue suffers at that. 

“Good evening! Any seat is fine. What can I get you?” you hear her say behind you as you take a look at your phone again that reads 6.45 now. 

“One of those herbal teas, actually” 

You turn to the familiar voice and Hotch stands at the bar, having followed the waitress there, and he’s already leaving a tip for the service. You straighten up and try to catch his eyes as he turns, immediately finding you. Sitting in a booth beside the entrance windows, light casting shadows over your figure – still looking at him that same way you did when you first joined the team. Now, feels like a long time ago. 

“Hey” your voice comes out a shallow whisper, inaudible from the distance between you, but he smiles back nonetheless. 

_Fuck,_ you breathe out, he looks _so good._ He’s not wearing a hoodie, but a brown quarter zip , and a pair of black jeans, and his hair is doing your _favorite_ thing, where some strands fall over his forehead. He nods, not tearing his eyes off of you, even as the waitress keeps asking questions at him, unheard to your ear, and he answers calmly, a coy smile playing at his lips. His looks, his presence – just him being solid and _here_ – it catches you off guard, knocking the breath out of you. You’d forgotten to prepare yourself for _this_ step. 

“I’ll be back at your table” she says and he walks towards you and you spring up, without thinking, like you’re greeting a sergeant. He reaches over, and you step closer as he wraps an arm around your shoulders, hugging you in greeting. You could get used to this – hugging him whenever you see him. You still maintain your soldier-posture even as he lets you go. He quickly laughs at that, his eyes going over your figure, taking in your straight rod posture. 

“At ease.” he says and slides into the seat next to you and you go back to yours, blushing despite yourself. He doesn’t make a note of it though, like the gentleman he is. 

“Sorry about arriving so late.” you shake your head as he says it, but he doesn’t let you wave off his impoliteness, “I had to put everything into drawers and the fridge, and then Jack called me while I was driving here.” 

Your eyebrows rise up, “How is Jack?” 

The dimples in his face are visible as he nods again smiling as he does whenever his son is mentioned. 

“He’s good. He’s on a sleepover tonight with friends from school. Another 7-year old's birthday party.” and he sighs, his shoulders falling. 

“Damn.” you let out, as his smile never falters, his cheekbones protruding, “That must be hard” 

“Jessica is with him, though”, he reaffirms, but you can tell he’s still worried about him, or worried about being away from him on a day off, “the mothers wanted to have a party of their own, close by to keep an eye on them.” 

You wince, that has got to be difficult for the both of them, Jack and Hotch. 

“How are you doing?” you can’t help but ask now, and you look at his face – there's no under eye circles, no visible tiredness, no apparent and immediate sadness – but you know he’s always thinking about her, about Haley. Grief is never gone. You know that too, even if the dog tags around your neck weren’t a never ending reminder. You search your mind for words of comfort, anything that you could offer up to him, to ease his worries a bit, but you come up empty. Distance has put a damper on your reading of him, on what boundaries you can cross while not at the BAU anymore. 

“Fine” he says, and his composure returns to the stern one of the BAU. He’s not one to open up easily either way, but you can’t help but feel a bit disappointed at that. 

“What’s the situation at work?” he asks, and it’s your turn to regain your composure. 

“Good”, you reply just as short, knowing all kinds of privacy agreements and contracts are keeping you from relaying more. “A lot of paperwork” you say calmly. 

“Right” he stills, and his arms come to rest over the table, his fingers intertwined together. 

A sorry excuse wants to make its way out of your mouth – over taking his time, his patience, and most of all, your own poor time management skills, but it doesn’t. You pause and a part of you – the profiler one that, thanks to him and the BAU, is never dormant – wants to ask what he’s doing here despite it all. Your eyes glaze over his face, a rushed reading of his features but you’re still unable to tell. Hotch, as anybody else from the BAU would confirm, is a tough one to crack. You take the form from where you’d shoved it into your bag and unfold it open before him. 

“Here, the revered nightmare” you say unceremoniously. 

The waitress reaches your table, shaking you out of your thoughts and she looks between the both of you, her eyes stopping, longer over Hotch. 

“Anything else?” She directs her question at you as she leaves Hotch’s cup of tea in front of him. 

“No. Thank you.” You say again for the millionth time this evening. You're too tired to fake another smile, or make it mean something. 

“You, sweetheart?” her attention shifts to Hotch and he doesn’t take his eyes off of you. 

“A tea would be good.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “One is not good enough for you?” 

He looks pointedly at your already empty cup of coffee that the waitress left by you not long ago. There’s a silent question there, and maybe a hidden reprimand too. And you’d like to think, some territoriality on his part as well. You palm the back collar of your button-up, brushing away the sweat that prickles there. 

“Ah,” you let out and try to garner as much authority in your voice as you can, “yeah, maybe a tea wouldn’t be that bad” 

The waitress lets out a hollowed laugh, “If I knew all it’d take was an attractive man to convince you, I would have known to give up before I began.” 

Hotch’s got a hint of a smile and you shake your head at her words. 

“Yeah, or you could have brought him in sooner” you play her game, and try not to focus on the way Hotch observes you, and she laughs at that, content. 

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time, sugar” 

Hotch takes a sip from his cup, and it’s bizarre to think that this whole ordeal over coffee was ever a thing at the BAU offices. It seems so distant now to remember how he’d make a cup of coffee for you whenever he made one for Rossi and himself. Or how when he saw you pushing through sleepless nights only fueled by coffee he’d switch to making herbal teas – like, a mother hen, you’d teased on a late night at the office surrounded by Reid and Rossi, making you all switch to healthier options. It’s even more ridiculous how you never even drank tea before then, if it hadn’t been prepared by him. _Yeah, maybe leaving BAU for any other option that wasn’t close to him, hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all._ Not if the memories that linger are anything to stand by. 

“Hope you don’t come to regret it”, the waitress says with a bite as she leaves the cup of tea before you, a bit more forcefully than your previous cups, before flashing another smile at Hotch. 

“Sorry about that,” Hotch says softly, his eyes following the waitress as she turns to the bar, “I come here often in the mornings with Jack to get a cup of coffee before dropping him off.” There’s something unsaid with the explanation. “I thought her shifts were only at mornings” 

“Who does she think I am?” you ask, trying to connect the dots. _Who is she to you,_ would have been a more daring question but with your wide gaze and tired self, you don’t have it in you to ask. 

Does she think you’re his _mistress? -_ your cheeks flush at that conclusion, at the implication at whatever other people thought over your appearance together in public. Hotch’s eyebrows furrow as he shakes his head, _doesn’t matter,_ he seems to say. His hands take the paper and he leans back against his seat, taking his time reading it over. 

“So, what are the difficulties you’re facing with this?” he asks and try to focus all of your remaining energy on the form – the actual justification of bringing him out of the comfort of his own home. 

So, you begin pouring over your worries at him, over the uncertainty on what to fill in and how to properly do it. And an hour passes as easily, discussing work and complaining over little nothings that come from new job placements and _of course,_ bureaucracies. And you don’t make an effort to move when his legs under the table rest against yours at some point. Not even when you’re both leaning towards the other narrowing the distance, the small table between the both of you resembling too much the table from the plane. Then you don’t even realize how work talk had crossed into something else – asking about the team, not about their recent cases, but their general wellbeing. On fun, crazy stuff on the field, or on Penelope’s quips or Reid’s strangeness being over noticed by yet another local police officer, or on Rossi’s extended love life. You’re not even sure, when a tea turned into muffins and then maybe even into a loose proposal over real dinner food. But it felt comfortable talking to him – it was like catching up with an old friend, not just a former boss. 

“So, lemme get this straight”, you repeat again, picking at the napkin covered in chocolate bites just at the table that you used to wipe at your mouth, after sharing a muffin with Hotch. His recommendation. 

_I have been wanting to get one but they always run out in the mornings, he’d said as the smell of pastries and sweets wafted through the air. So, you call the waitress over as the smell of tomorrow’s muffins from the kitchen fills the room, the air sugary sweet and vanilla under your tongue. And it’s Hotch’s turn to convince her with a simple easy smile on his part. She says she can spare only one for him, (you not included) and heads back to the kitchen. She doesn’t catch the way Hotch’s long fingers and thumbs split the muffin in 2 as soon as she turns, and offers you the bigger half._

“Penelope said what to their analyst?” 

You know Hotch won’t repeat it again – that Penelope Garcia had greeted an analyst with _Sorry you’re not a bombastic blonde genius sweetheart so let me take this over -_ but a small smile still lingers as he looks down at his own hands. 

“God,” you breathe out, “I miss her so much” and true you’d just seen her a week ago, but this – her mishaps in the office were another side you were now privy too. 

“She talks about you constantly” Hotch says, his voice kind. And you wonder how and in what contexts but that is something you have to ask Penelope personally. 

His phone, left over the table between the two of you flashes once and then another time. He picks it up, his face turning serious and just as if you’d summoned her, he says aloud. 

“That’s her.” 

Your face falls, the prospect of dinner now officially out the window. 

“New case?” 

He nods, “Yes” 

You look at the table, at the form just on the right and the piece of paper he’d scribbled over explaining every term in detail. And then at the cups of tea sitting empty together with an almost empty water bottle. 

“Sorry about this” his eyebrows furrow and his expression is apologetic but you wave it off. 

“I understand” you say, “ _really”_ and he nods at that. He stands up and you follow suit. 

“It’s better I go submit this, now that I’m not illiterate anymore” You pick up the papers and fold them neatly inside your bag. He’s patting his pockets for his wallet and you leave banknotes before he has the chance to. 

“No, no, I will pay”, he insists. 

“Hotch, I was here before you. I took like 12 coffees before you even got here” 

But it falls to deaf ears, as he marches to the bar and pays directly with a credit card the waitress. You try to clean up the table, as you shove the money in your pocket, trying to make the space look less like Spencer Reid’s desk and more like an actual coffee shop. 

You toss the dirty napkins in the bin next to the entrance and wait by the door as she finishes ringing him up. 

Your eyes go to the clock on the wall – It’s almost 11:40 and you don’t hide the surprise. How did you not notice? How didn’t he? Time had felt like nothing. 

“Goodnight sweetheart! See you” 

The waitress calls out and you take a look at your own phone as Hotch joins you. 

He pushes the door open for you to go out first. The flow of cold night air hits your face first, and it jolts you awake, and you become painfully aware of your proximity to Hotch –the heat from his body behind you as you descend the stairs. With the sun set and less movement in the roads too, and the still setting of nightlife around you, you’re not as sheltered as you felt in the coffee shop. Your mind flips a switch and you’re incredulous at having spent so much time with him here, alone. There was no real reason for having spent more than 3 hours talking over nothing. And you remember distinctly how you’d left things – both of your half-confessions without no real resolution. It leaves you in disarray. 

“Where to?” he asks and it brings you out of your thoughts. The both of you step out of the patch of light illuminating the shop’s entrance, and into the half-lit parking lot. You move through the gravel pavement and reach Hotch’s SUV first. You’d been thinking it too as he asked it – which part of the country would this case take him but something stops you again. 

“Office” you say crestfallen and look out to where your motorbike is parked just a few steps away. He nods and takes his car keys out, slinging them by a finger. You know he probably has a to go bag already prepared and, in his car, and most importantly, somewhere very urgent to be, but now all your excuses to see him again have vanished with the completed form in your bag. So, you don’t want to leave just yet. 

“Need a lift?”, he asks as you both pause in front of his car, the distance between you filled with tension. _Did he still feel the same way?_

“No, uh” you sway your arm to where your motorbike is, “I’m right there” 

His expression doesn’t change, “I didn’t know you could ride bikes” 

You shrug slowly, feeling your muscles contract with the movement, the caffeine leaving your system and being replaced once again with exhaustion. 

“I switched a month ago. It’s better for traffic”, you offer but his eyes linger on the motorbike and you feel like he wants to say something else – how it’s not safe, like your mother had done, or how it’s even unfathomable to imagine you driving in the dark. What he thinks is how even in the short period he’d still managed to miss things from your life. He remains silent. 

That’s another thing you didn’t ask all evening – how and why he split up with Beth. _That’s not your place,_ a voice inside you says. The sooner you leave, the better it is. 

“Uh, thanks for the form” you say, finally breaking the silence “and uh, stay safe.” 

“Of course,” he replies to the first. 

“Don’t become a stranger” you joke and there’s a hint of recognition in his eyes. You turn to back away, your own keys in the palm of your hand. 

“Saya” he calls out your first name, like the time he had done when he caught you waiting for Reid, making you halt in your steps. 

He’s slung the car door but not gotten in – not without first making sure you reach your bike first. 

“If there’s anything else- “ 

“I have your number” you fill in and something warm blooms in your chest. 

He smiles. You still feel his eyes on you as you put on your helmet and hop on the bike, securing the bag around your body first, before turning on the ignition. You stop the bike in front of his car, waiting until his car is on too and ready to depart – mutually assured safety precautions – and only when he raises a hand in a goodbye do you leave. Your mind races 100miles per hour as you drive through the streets of Quantico. The thoughts all circle back to Hotch. _Maybe there was something there to be salvaged._

Well, at least you didn’t have to see him every day and overthink it. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talking about forms makes no sense !! I am aware! but they're dumb and stupid and don't know how to talk about what they wanna talk about so take this with a grain of salt thanks


	16. Chocolate Pudding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take advantage of it, his offer for help whenever you need it. And Hotch doesn't seem to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with a quick one ! My pre-written chapters are about to expire lol so im sorry if i take longer to update bcs i need to write new parts

You take advantage of it, his offer for help whenever you need it. It starts with that coffee shop “date”, and that one form, and you try not to cling to it – the feeling you get whenever you’re around him, but you almost can’t help it. A talk over a form at a coffee shop transforms into three other ones. Then the coffee shop is exchanged for a late diner, and you don’t question how he manages this free time. Between the job and his son Jack, you know that there must be something else unaccounted for. Your mind goes to Beth, and the times he’d leave work earlier to meet with her- was he doing the same for you now? But as much as you want to ask, get a confirmation of something you secretly wish for, you still don’t. Because as much as Hotch doesn’t appear to have a social life, he does have one – with David Rossi, with friends, and his family at the BAU. And you seem to fit in it just fine. So, you stop questioning it. But his free time seems to get significantly smaller. That’s how, even after a long while, the diners turn into him inviting you over to his house – at his home office. 

_For work,_ obviously. 

You park the car in front of his house, a small front yard covered in flowers and herbs and other small plants makes the distance between and you’re grateful for having changed into sneakers, before making your way out to his front door. Your whole body is fizzled with nervousness. You’ve never been at his house alone – in the 2 years at the BAU you’d heard loose stories about the others from the team passing by very normally, after he’d lost his wife. And you’d been inside that one time, with the team, when Penelope Garcia decided to throw him a surprise party once – which started off on a rough bump, but by the end of the night it turned into success. Hotch had realized that he wasn’t on his own – the BAU, the team, was his family too. And another time, in his front porch, like you are standing now, you’d knocked on his door to inform him that you were there to take him to work even if he refused – the March that Rossi mended your relationship. This time, at 3pm on a Thursday, another unicorn of a day-off for him and the BAU – he’d said on the phone over – and he couldn’t be bothered to get to anywhere. Jack was still at school and he preferred not to leave his home, since he was closer to him from here than anywhere else. He’d told you this on the phone too. You try to calm the nerves that seem to show even through your shaky fingers. You latch them together, forming a fist and breathe in and out, twice, before knocking on his front door. There’s a commotion on the other side at your third knock and you glance at your phone on your other hand. No new texts or missed calls from Hotch alerting you of any change in plans, so you step back and wait. The door opens with a click, and Hotch’s frowning on the other side. Like he’s trying to profile a criminal in the field. 

“Hey” he says casually. He’s wearing a crisp white t-shirt and blue washed jeans, and he’s a got a pot in hand. 

“Everything okay?” you ask. 

He steps back letting you inside and winces at the question. 

“I’m trying to make chocolate pudding” he says deadpan. 

You cock an eyebrow, “aw, thanks” you joke, “but you don’t have to make me anything.” 

He motions with a free hand to the small wooden table below the hanged coats in the hall as he closes the door. You drop your bag and shake off the jean jacket from your shoulders and hang it loosely. Your shoes are kicked off next, set to the side by the entrance door. He disappears on the right of the hallway, going into the kitchen and you trail behind. 

“Jack mentioned it last night” he says without looking to you, and the kitchen is a mess – pots and pans on the counters, a cupboard or two still open, and flour and chocolate in the small kitchen island. 

“Flour?” you question, and he huffs a breath at that. 

“I’m good at this” he says and turns around sharply, like you’d touched upon something sensitive to him. 

“Uh,” you raise two hands up but your eyes stay on the mess on the table, “I don’t doubt it” 

He glances at you as if you’re lying, his expression still stern. You could make a joke or two to ease the tension, and hope for the best. But the way his entire body seems wired right now – the quick motions, the snapping, even the hold he still has on the pot – seem to say that there’s something very important at stake. 

“I made two attempts so far” he says, a bit gentler than before, and turns to the kitchen island. You move to where he stands, and sure enough – there are two small pots with a gooey chunk of black matter at the bottom, glued to the dish. His body tenses up beside you as if waiting for a harsh criticism. 

You eye the pot in his hand now, the bottom is sprinkled with chocolate powder. So, there’s the mistake. You step back, think over the tactic, because you need one at this point. 

“What?” he interrupts as if sensing your train of thought. “What is it?” 

You shrug, “nothing” 

He stares at you, expression unwavering as if considering it, then takes a deep breath. The deep exhale that follows right after untenses his figure. 

“Please” he says softly. You reach for the pot in his hand, like approaching a feral animal and he lets go. It’s stupid that you first thought it - he doesn’t look aggressive or anything of the sorts, he looks…sad. You don’t dwell on it, just move with ease to the kitchen sink and rinse the pot without a second thought. You expect a little more fight from his part but it seems to stop as soon as that dish is out of his hands. As soon as it’s clean you dry it off with a bright blue towel hanging by the window sill, and place it over the stove, rotating the button to the lowest heat. In the background you hear him clean up the counters and closing cupboards. You take the full-fat milk from the counter and an empty black cup from the drying rack of the sink and pour two full cups of milk into the pot. Hotch has gone silent behind you and when you turn, the kitchen is spotless, no trace of the mess of the first few minutes of your entering the house. He stands on the other side of the kitchen island, with two hands at his hips, still untrusting of the pot – a funny, ridiculous posture when it’s directed to an inanimate object. Yet his expression is softer than before, no tension left over. 

“Now, we wait” you say gently and his face lets go of the frown too. 

“The other steps are as you made them” 

He nods and you feel shy all of the sudden, at the fact you’re stuck guarding _his_ stove in _his_ kitchen and you’d expertly managed to calm him down. Though, you still aren’t sure of the latter. 

“Right”, and you sit down on one of the kitchen stools. He stays there straight as a pencil, his eyes going back and forth between you and the stove behind you. There’s something behind this small breakdown you just witnessed but you don’t want to linger on it if he won’t open up on his own volition. And he does after a beat of silence. 

“I’m scared I’m not enough for Jack” he says aloud, his voice painfully sad, “and when I seem to fail in simple tasks, I’m worried I am failing in big ones as well” 

Haley had been torn away from their lives so quickly, and you know he’s struggling still. He never let it show. Yet in cases with children back at the BAU you’d observed his body language: his shoulders slouched, expression guarded and at times even eyes filled with tears – when the parents reunited with their children, and especially when they didn’t. He was good at hiding it. You realize there’s guilt in his emotions too. There’s no doubt that there’s a part of him that wants to barter his life for hers, only if it meant Jack would get the kinder, more available parent – in his eyes. 

“Not knowing how to make a dessert doesn’t signify anything” you say softly, but his head is still lowered. 

“You’re there for him, and you’re doing your best.” 

He can't seem to meet your eyes and you want the words to reach him, more than anything. 

“ _Aaron_ ” you say, your gentle and soft calling of his name making him look up. 

“I don’t need to be an expert, but he’s a kind kid, and he’s _happy with you”_

And you don’t need to have known both of them for a long time to see that Jack admired his father. It was visible all over his small face whenever he looked up at him. 

“He loves you, and you’re doing everything right by _loving_ him. You’re a good dad” 

“Thank you” he says, eyes much too soft. 

“Of course,” 

He regards you for what feels like a long time, but the silence is quiet and comforting, the only sound being the ticking clock behind him – at a steady rhythm with the beating of your heart almost. 

“Thanks” he repeats again, quickly. He stands up, shaking off the moment “coffee?” 

You return a smile at the offer. “Yes, please” 

Your eyes follow his movements around the kitchen, his back is always to you so you can do so without reservation. You don’t even remember when the nervousness of being here has dissipated, but it is long gone. 

“Milk?” there’s a tease in his voice and you smile when he turns to you with an eyebrow raised. 

“Only if it’s brown and crunchy” you joke, and his stern face breaks into a smile. 

“We just ran out.” 

You lean your elbows over the marble, and prop your chin up in your raised hands, granting him a wide smile. The smell of coffee fills the air in 2 minutes and he’s made two – one for you and himself. The cup he pours for you is a flashy pink with white little cherubs drawn on the sides, and the handle is ornamental – it’s a small sculpture and you so badly want to ask about it. 

“It’s a stupid gift from a friend” he flatly says as he leaves the cup in front of you, before you even pop the question. 

His, is a classic black. 

“What, it’s not manly enough for you?” you joke, wrapping your palms around your cup. 

He sits down in front of you and there’s a hint of a smile there on his lips, his dimples making a show for it. He takes a sip as soon as he’s settled, and it’s intimate – his kitchen incomparable in size with David’s. This one is small, cozier, not the same feeling as the industrial sized culinary kitchen of MasterChef David Rossi. The color palette is different too – beautiful wooden cupboards with white marble counters, and a splash of cream color playing with a joyful red in the interior walls, and small smiling photos of him and Jack, his ex-wife Haley included, line the walls in the form of a mosaic. The kitchen island might as well be a counter too, with its short width and long span, and with the space between you two, you know if you moved in the same direction as him that your knees would bump into each other. You take a sip too, after lightly blowing at the top to make it cooler, and the taste is different than any coffee bought at a shop, ever. You don’t hide your exclamations. 

“Holy shit” you let out, and he shakes his head smiling. 

“You’ve been holding out on me.” You take another taste and it’s the best coffee you’ve ever had. All those coffee shop meetings have been wasted. 

“Are you secretly a coffee expert?” 

Hotch gives you a lazy shrug. “Maybe” 

“I don’t think I can leave your house now without knowing all your coffee-making secrets” 

He laughs, and the sound of it fills your ears, the pitch higher than his normal speaking tone and adorable. 

“I could trade you for the chocolate pudding ones” he says and you spring, having forgotten already – turning your head to the stove behind you to make sure the milk hasn’t boiled yet and spilled over. It’s going to take way longer than a couple of minutes before you have to get back to work on that. 

“Deal” you say, attention back on him. You extend an arm towards him, elbow brushing off the cold marble. He takes it without a second’s hesitation. 

“Deal” he repeats as his fingers lace around yours, the heat of his large hand enveloping yours. Your bottom lip is sucked between your teeth as you spot the veins protruding on the inside of his wrist continuing upwards to his toned forearm. His thumb rests on top of your hand for a moment – the whole thing lasting for barely a whole second but your face is heated. 

You turn your attention to the cup in front of you as he goes back to the common steps of any of your meetings – how are you-s, what have you been up to-s, and the vague and general, how is life. You reply as always, adding a remark here and there, going off-tangent and at length over some fact at work or a strange exchange since you’d last seen him – something he never asks for but never opposes to. 

It takes a while for the milk to warm up, and the normal pleasantries are long gone, chased away by meaningful discussions, and when it’s boiling as if on cue, Hotch stands up when you do. He follows you to the stove, standing close beside you, and passes you the packet of pudding. He watches you pour it slowly over the milk, a spoon at hand stirring it gently. The heat of the stove and his presence at your right, so close you can smell his cologne, like seawater and a tinge of something sharp and sweet, addictive, and his clothes too, the aroma of fresh lavender laundry detergent – it all makes your body warm. You keep your eyes trained to not butchering this up. There’s another packet of pudding in the box but you know his patience for today on this matter is thin, and maybe so is yours with his proximity. It’s like the both of you are conducting some sort of scientific experiment with the way you’re huddled around the stove, heads low at the pots direction and silence never breaking. You risk a glance at him – he’s attentive but he’s not frowning, his face is at a soft impasse, not smiling either, but in a peaceful in-between. His hair is not gelled today, it looks fluffy and longer than the usual short cut, a few loose strands falling over his forehead. His eyes remain glued to the slow stirring you do with the spoon, and there’s a bead of sweat forming at his temple, from the heat of the stove. A layer of stubble is thin over his jawline, that you hadn’t noticed before, maybe because of the distance, and his lips are parted. You’d never been granted this opportunity to look at him this up-close, and you revel in it. But now looking at his lips once more, the dimples at the sides and even his cheekbones – you don’t know if you can ever stop. Especially since there’s an itch in your hands to want to trace any and all of his facial features. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, and he seems to notice the sharpness of it too, his eyes worrying over you. 

“I can take over”, he offers and you shake your head in embarrassment. 

“No, uh” you stir once more and this time show a spoonful of the liquid that has started to become thicker.” It’s almost done” you note and he nods, his eyes still glazing over your face. 

It takes all your will to keep your eyes trained to the pot, as you feel him watching you, and your heart is thumping fast inside your chest that you fear he can almost hear it beating. You bring another spoonful up, and you watch as the thick matter takes longer to droop from it, falling with a thunk to the pot. Your hand wraps around a towel to the handle of the pot as Hotch reaches over, his large hand cupping the stove button switching it off, his arm coming between your lower stomach and the stove, not touching you but hovering in that very short distance. You swallow thickly and before he catches your reaction you turn your back to him, and rest the pot over the kitchen island. He’s opening a cupboard – you hear him rummage around for dishes – and you’re back to normal, you convince yourself. Hotch places two small porcelain bowls beside you – no hand painted craftsmanship this time, and you split the pudding between the two. When it’s all done, and you feel around with a spoon for chunks of chocolate, (there isn’t any) he lets out a low whistle. You smile, and leave the pot in the sink, filling it up in half with water. 

“Smells wonderful” he says and looks you over. 

“I know” you say, and don’t hide the pride in your voice. The smell of chocolate and vanilla – he’d let you sprinkle some in after convincing him it’s a culinary secret – lingers in the air, and fills the entire house. 

“Should have made more” he says as a reprimand to himself as he half-sits on the counter and you wave it off. 

“This is for Jack.” You say and his smile is sincere “plus, I’ve had enough sweets for this entire month”. That garners another laugh from him. He picks up one of the porcelains bows in his hands and a spoon which he uses to move the pudding with unwavering fascination. 

“No taste checks?” He asks, “That’s not very MasterChef-David of you” You dry your hands with that same towel and hang it back in its place. 

“Afraid I poisoned it?” 

He shrugs, a playful smile on his lips. He takes a spoonful and raises it up. The same warmth that came with the heat of the stove doesn’t go away, not even with the open space around you. You close in the distance, stepping before him and in-between his parted legs. You open your mouth, closing it around the spoon still in his hand. Your taste buds are filled at once with the chocolate and vanilla mix, the sweetness and hotness of the pudding burning your tongue. Your eyes stay fixed on his, dark and dilated as they regard you with incredible intensity. His free hand moves on instinct, palm lightly brushing over the side of your waist, resting there, making your entire body electric. He watches you for any reaction to stop or retreat. He’s closer than the moments before at the stove and you’re almost at the same height, since he’s leaning over the kitchen island. He looks beautiful – and your mind is wiped blank. You let go of the spoon and step back, his hand dropping over his knee. A hot drip of pudding stings the side of your mouth and your tongue flickers out licking it away. The air is thick, completely different than before. His eyes drop excruciatingly slow at your lips, and you see the quick movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows at the same time you do. Then you feel shy again. There was a million other different ways you could have done that – but some part of you doesn’t regret it. Not yet, at least. You lean back on the counter behind you and smile, wiping a thumb at your lower lip, unsure if there is still pudding staining your mouth. 

“I think it was a successful attempt.” You say, your voice not yet steady. 

He remains silent, looking at you with an expression you’d never noted on him before – only _probably_ in your dreams. He can’t quite tear his eyes away from your lips. 

“Go ahead, it’s not poisoned. Jack’s going to like it.” you say with a smile and that seems to make him go back to normal, slowly dragging his eyes away from you. He takes another spoonful of the pudding – the same spoon where your mouth had been seconds ago – and tries it himself now. Of course, just that simple gesture makes you hot and your breath shaky again, and you look away as he lets out a hum of approval. 

“Thanks” he says, and there is something else that he wants to add, by the way his intonation of the word ends up. He doesn’t. 

Also, because your phone starts ringing abruptly on your back pocket, breaking the spell. You take it out, mumbling a quick excuse as you go out to the hall, upon noticing the name flashing on the screen. 

“Martins” you say it aloud, and the man on the other side lets out a laugh. 

“Sorry for the inopportune moment.” He waits for you to explain your whereabouts, but you don’t. So, he goes on. 

“We might have a lead. The London Office sent us the information you requested.” 

“I’ll be there in 15” you say. 

“Good” he replies but you pay no mind to it as you hang up. 

You shut your eyes for a second. It’s not the best moment but you’re still glad that the search panned out. And that overpowers any other sentiment. You feel awkward though walking back to Hotch’s kitchen. He’s washing the pot in the sink, the noise of it making your phone call private. You linger at the door and he looks up then, turning the water off. 

“Uh” you start off lamely, “I’m so sorry, I have to go - “ 

His expression changes, seriousness falls back to place. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, not masking the worry behind his words. 

“Yes, just” you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “work.” 

He nods, and follows you wordlessly out to the hall. You don’t have time to put on the jacket or throw the bag around your shoulders. You grab both and just hurry into your shoes, as he opens the door. 

“Thanks for coming over” he says before you get a chance to express your own gratitude. 

“Sorry for not – “ _lookin_ g _over any files,_ he wants to say. 

You nod sharply at that, your mind is already buzzing with the case’s details, going over them automatically. 

Just as you’re about to turn and leave though, he takes a step towards you and you hold your breath. His hand grabs a hold of your arm just above your wrist. He leans in and you do too, his face so close to yours it makes your entire body heat up at once. Then his mouth is on your cheek, lips brushing feather light against your skin just once. His stubble rubs electricity against your cheek and jawline, leaving goosebumps all over. He steps back, his hand moving back to the door but you’re still struck. 

“Take care” he says, shaking you out of your trance and you’re stupefied. 

You don’t even remember the walk to the car or how you even drive back to your office but you do. Your mind is a haze. 


	17. Say it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunting for Reus is slow and when you make it back home, you decide to do something unexpected - call Hotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's happening folks (that's all I will say)

Hunting down Reus is the single most strenuous thing you’ve had to do in your career and searching for him hadn’t been that long. Since leaving the BAU it had been almost 3 months – without counting the time he’d first emerged. The organizations involved were more than familiar with him, and without any limit to their research on him. The involvement of the CIA in particular pushed the matter to become more urgent. Apart from his father, Jonathan Reus had made more than a lot of friends in prison and finding him meant taking information from him (if he were to ever agree). Interpol on the other hand was made aware of him since he had made attempt to conduct another robbery not too far from Paris. The investigation takes you to France at first. 

“This guy is genuinely trying to set up some new connections. I’m impressed” says Junie, standing under the shadow of the tall person next to her – Olivier. Both of them, late 30s, extremely different in appearance – height and features, as well as style, are Interpol agents. They conduct analysis and make connections between crimes occurring in different parts of the world, so the responsible police officers can then make an arrest. After the trial on the Bank of France in Paris – unsuccessful for Reus and co – they’d found another unsuccessful trial in Bordeaux. 

Olivier huffs at that. “He’s failing so you shouldn’t be” 

“Are you saying you’re sad he failed?” you try to joke but they both stare at you like you’ve gone mad. 

“No,” Olivier says, “I’m saying that while he’s trying to continue the work with the Arles Gang, he’s not been very good at it” 

You try to think on it for a second. It had been almost 4 hours now in this conference room and none of you had come up with a new approach to Reus. You just knew where he had been. You wanted to know where’d he go next. 

“He’s not fitting in with them” you say, mostly to yourself. You think back to what Spencer had said once, that this guy was perfecting his methodology. You look up at the two agents. Junie is already back on her computer while Olivier stays put. “He’s going to leave this team and join another.” 

“What makes you so sure of that?” 

You turn to the voice behind you – always too quiet in the conference room but never around the office or in the field, Martins, the man who spoke, was spitfire. And it was his temper and his need to get to his own goal that made this job a bit more stressful than anything else. He was the CIA agent, not active most times, but hovering around. Supposedly, but not officially, making sure you all knew how pressing the matter of finding Reus was. Like _you didn’t fucking know_ already. 

“His behavior” you reply, keeping your voice calm, ”he’s always been the one taking charge and assembling people. He’s a dominant, and he has to lead.” 

Martins steps forward, crossing his arms over his chest. Still unconvinced. 

“Then why did he join the Arles team? Are you saying you’ve been following them for no reason now?” 

You remember all the times the BAU had been questioned in the field – by the local police officers, civilians and even criminals at times. That had to be a step meant to prepare you for this. That’s how you feel at least. 

“No” you say,” He’s desperate. He fled from the U.S so he wanted to fit in, and regain composure. It’s what people do in their lowest of moments – cling to any form of security they can find” 

His eyes scan your figure, undoubtedly rethinking again your reason for joining the task force to begin with. 

“But I think whatever he got from Arles he’s done with.” Your eyes pan to the photos on the board. In the two years the Arles band of thieves had been active, they’d committed two murders and one police officer. “They’re too messy for him – they torture guards, they often escalate in hostage situations. Could be he traded himself for intel.” 

You eye the map on the left. What Reus wanted more than anything was to continue his path in perfect robberies but because of the time and the new geographical ground – he had to find already an existing team. Preferably one that lacked a boss. 

“Olivier” you call and the man in front of you nods, “Is there a similar team like this in France that has gone inactive?” 

“Don’t think so” he says and Junie behind the computer confirms his statement.

“There haven’t been any since 2005.” she says. 

“How about any other country closest to France?” you ask. Reus is in a new environment after all – and one with good transport connections and accessible from everywhere. 

“In London” she starts, “Last robbery attempt on the Bank of England happened 2 years ago” 

You look down at your handwritten notes – was there something missing? 

“One guy was shot” she says. “Scotland Yard has written that they thought they caught the head of the team, subsequently making it disband” 

“That could be it” 

Martins scoffs, already showing his discontent. And you know it’s not enough to convince the entire team to look onto it in more detail. You need proof – just any small thing that could signify Reus had entered the country. You pick up Reus’ personal file again. Derek and Emily would say there’s something right under your nose that you’ve been missing. So, you dwell again on the file in hand. Reus was a guy who runs by trial and error. And you’d deduced with the BAU team that this had stopped once he found out he could commit the perfect crime – a robbery. What if that trial period had never finished? What if he still continued? 

“Have there been any murders in London as of recent?” 

Junie raises an eyebrow, already dreading the answer to her next question: “How recent?” 

“This month” you shake your head – that's too much time. You need precise. “Past two weeks” 

She types away in the keyboard and you try to ignore the way Martins keeps glaring at you. 

“A 17 years old girl was found shot in an alleyway just outside her dormitory” she says, “but I don’t see how that’s relevant.” 

You remember Marie then, the teen girl that Reus had assaulted and stalked for year as a teen. 

“Was she identified?” 

“Yes” she says. Before you can ask, she sends you her file and the photo of a young blonde girl pops up on your screen – almost identical to Marie. She fits his type. 

“I think Reus killed her” you tell the team. “We need to get any information we can to connect the two.” 

Then files from London arrived just as quick, confirming what you’d deduced. The phone call had arrived that day in Hotch’s house. They’d found CCTV images of the last moments of the girl walking home from the club – a tall man trailing behind. It had been the latest footage and the needed proof of Reus so you and the team flew right away to him. 

\-- 

“So-” JJ asks, and she scootches closer to your chair, the music in the background not loud but distracting enough that you cannot hear each other across the table. 

“Is there anyone who’s gotten your attention at work?” 

You scoff, _of course, ladies’ night_ _means love talk._ You think back at Martins, the 30 years old CIA agent who’s always making forward remarks to any women who so much as look his way; and to Olivier, the complete opposite and also happily married. Or at Junie, who had 2 small kids and another one on the way. You grimace. 

“Not really, no” 

“C’mon, it’s been – what, 4 months already, right?” 

You take a sip of your cocktail and shake your head again. 

“No, I mean it. There’s literally nobody at work” 

“So, that means not at work?” Her eyebrows go up, “Is there someone _out_ of work?” 

You laugh, _yes, but not in that way._ At least, that’s not what those hangouts with Hotch, had been. Penelope returns to her seat, another cocktail in hand, followed by Emily. Their attention goes to you and JJ. 

“So” Emily says, sitting down before you, “Where have you been these past few months?” 

The new footage from London and the murder case of the teen in London had led the team there, then Sheffield and even Wales, for 1 full uninterrupted month. Unable to respond to texts or emails that anyone had sent to you. 

“Nowhere”, you shrug. And it had been led to nowhere for the case – having it open up more questions regarding Reus and his goals rather than answering the existing ones. “I’ve been here, just a lot of work to do” 

Emily lets it go with a knowing look on her eyes. She knows more than anyone how much travelling there is in this job. 

“So, what are we talking about?” Penelope asks, looking in between you and JJ. 

“About how long ago our friend here got laid” JJ says casually and you almost spit out your drink. 

“Jennifer-” you start, “I don’t-” 

“You don’t, what?” 

“I have enough on my plate, you know”, your face is red as a tomato. 

“Oh, so who’s giving you some _loving_?” 

That phrase was the go-to for matters such as this, of course. You shake your head. You can’t lie to them – not really, when they’re your friends and support you more than anyone. And it hadn’t occurred to you to tell them about Hotch and this seemingly new relationship that had sprouted after leaving the BAU. It wasn’t because you didn’t want to, but merely because you didn’t know what it was yet. You knew your own intentions but not his. And even if he didn’t feel the same a part of you was content with matters as they are – simple, calm and unsurprising. Friendship with Hotch feels familiar. Right then (and always when not expected) three men approach your table, smiling at all of you. 

“Hello there, my name is Tim”, the first one speaks, tall and lean, dressed in a fitting white shirt showcasing his set of abs and lowcut jeans. He’s sporting a buzzcut and confidently so. To say he’s attractive is not enough to describe him. Penelope stares at him, her jaw already hanging. You hold in a laugh. _What kind of name is Tim?_

His eyes peer to you, a small smirk in his lips. “These are my friends, Rene and Noah” 

The two men at his sides, one with long blonde hair and the other, brown-haired, step in front. The latter one looks at Penelope, who flashes a smile in turn. 

“Mind if we join you?” 

You’re ready to say no, not when Emily and JJ are already taken, and you’re not here for accommodating male attention, but for your friends. J 

J steps in before you respond: “Not at all, you came at just the right time” Her eyes go to you, hinting towards you. “Our friend here needs company.” 

You pinch Jennifer’s elbow under the table, but she simply chuckles. 

“Is that right?” Tim asks, and JJ brings out a chair so he stands between the two of you. 

_God dammit, Jennifer JJ_ _Jareau_ _._

_“_ What’s your name?” he’s got an accent that you can’t pinpoint where from but you go along with it, simply because the girls seem to enjoy it. 

“Lola” you lie, and Emily rolls her eyes at you. 

“Pleasure to meet you” he holds out a hand and you take it for a second. 

The men don’t linger for long, they’re easily shut down by Emily and JJ, but the brown-haired one, Noah, is charming and Penelope enjoys his company. And Tim, with his bad jokes, and trials at keeping a conversation with you that turns one-sided, leaves his phone number in your hand, expecting a call. As soon as he leaves, you get out for a cigarette break, and for fresh air, though the two negate each other. 

With a lit cigarette on your lips, you take out your phone looking at the recent messages. It was just the day before yesterday that you returned from London, spent the first day sleeping like a zombie. Then the next, you’d gone out to work then to the city, for groceries and cleaned the apartment that had stood empty for an entire month. You’d driven past the coffee shop where you met up with Hotch that one night, and parked, bought a muffin and gotten back. Without thinking it, you’d texted him a pic of the muffin, with a bite in it, still warm in your hands, and texted “Blueberries are excellent too!!” 

It had been some time since you’d spoken and met one another, but David updated you. Penelope and her tech skills had something to do with it – as he was the only one who had your new work number as well. It was funny, considering, that David turned into an iPhone man, sending pics of bourbon or good wine to you, when he bought some – like an uncle or a grandpa. Most of them were almost always blurry but you couldn’t complain. You updated him too with your own not-blurry photos of new cooking recipes, or fresh food and vegetables bought. He kept doing it even after you left the BAU, and he’d send you even pics of jazz lounges he’d go to, as if you could hear the music from it. That’s how you’d spotted, image foggy, but still visible – Hotch's silhouette by him, in a table near David with 2 women. Hotch was back at being David’s wingman. Then you left for London, and when you weren’t thinking about the case, which made up 90% of your thoughts, you were thinking about Hotch - _single, wanting to date Hotch_. And you didn’t wish it in secret anymore, that he had remained single during this time. Now looking at your text, signaling you that it was read, you know he must have gotten distracted. Hotch does text like a boomer. Then you spot the three dots of him typing. Then a buzz. 

_Hotch: You’re back_

It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation, but it still tugs your lips upwards. 

You hold your cigarette in your lips, and type back with two hands. 

_Saya_ _: I’m out with the girls_

_Hotch: I know. Garcia told me_

There’s another smile, and _of course_ she did. He’d mentioned it once how she talked about you all the time and you’re grateful. You take the cigarette out, pressing the end over the recycling bin, and then throwing it in. You don’t think it twice – you press call. 

He picks up after just one ring. 

“Hello?” he greets, bypassing his usual stern _Hotchner_ , his husky baritone voice already surprised. 

Relief washes over you at once, your muscles relaxing already as you lean against the walls behind you. _How can one single person have so much effect on you?_ You shut your eyes momentarily. 

“Saya?” he repeats and you let out a laugh out of embarrassment. 

“Hey, am I catching you at a bad time?” you ask, wrapping an arm around you midriff. 

“No” he says, and you hear his footsteps on the background, probably walking around in his home. 

“Everything okay?” he asks and that tugs at something deep inside you – worry always first in his mind. 

“Yeah” _not really, you think, because you don’t have a real reason for calling._

_“_ I just wanted to hear your voice” 

There’s silence on the other side, then a slow intake of breath, and you fear your admission has broken something. Yet you push on. 

_“_ How are you?” your own voice remains gentle. 

His footsteps are soft in the parquet of his home, and you hear him pause, then exhale slowly. 

“I’m good” he says, then before you ask again, he adds, “Just put Jack to sleep. I read him this bedtime story that JJ recommended” you smile at the words. 

“And now I was watching a documentary Spencer suggested” 

That gets a laugh out of you. 

“Really?” 

“Yes” and you can almost sense the smile in his voice, “But I’m so tired, I’m going to fall asleep halfway through” 

You nod, forgetting he can’t see it. 

“What’s it about?” 

You hear on the other end his feet begin shuffling again and then a plop, onto the couch or the sofa. 

“Psychology and children behavior” 

You flinch – a really heavy topic for a Friday night but you don’t tell him that. 

“It’s interesting” he says as if sensing your thoughts, “they present an entirely new approach-“ 

“Aaron-“ 

His first name out of your lips a surprise for you too but you don’t dwell on it for long. While he effectively shuts up. 

“I sound like Spencer” he says, realizing it too. 

You bite your lip, hiding a small smile. 

“I know” he says again, and you laugh into the speaker. 

“How is the club?” he asks then. 

“Loud” you say, and you know he doesn’t really care about it. You know what he really wants to ask, aware of the nature of your job and the lack of contact. What he sincerely wants to ask is _how you’ve been, if it had been hard in the field, if it had been successful, and if you were okay too whatever the outcome_. 

“It’s nice to see the girls” you admit, “I swear Penelope just wants me drunk. No concealing it this time” 

He stifles a chuckle. 

“And JJ’s Henry has grown so much already.” You think about Jack and how he is too, perhaps trying to catch up with Hotch in height already. 

“She showed me some pictures of him camping. The small hat, the puffy jacket too big for his body – so cute” 

“I know. He’s adorable” 

“And Emily” you turn to look back, the windows of the club big enough to show whoever is inside. You spot her laughing with the girls. A part of you always worried for her, well for all of them, but after knowing what she’d went through with Doyle, what she _went through afterwards_ , you couldn’t help it. 

“She looks well, _you know?”_ She looks up, catching your eyes. Her expression changes subtly not to alarm JJ and Penelope, but enough that you know she’s curious over your phone call. 

_“_ I know” he says. 

You lean into the glass, and now the cold air gets to you. Seeing the girls is nice, being out is nice but more than anything, you want to see him. Have him here, out for drinks, sitting on the other side of a table beside you just like Tim had done. 

“Strange how this isn’t your thing, _clubs_ ” 

He chuckles, “they used to be” 

“I sincerely doubt it. You’re telling me you went out partying? Danced with people?” 

“I used to, long time ago. I _do_ like dancing” 

“You do?” you ask, not masking the surprise in your voice. “I can’t picture it. I mean, I try to but my mind gives me the Error signal when I do” 

He laughs again, and _god, you’d missed hearing that in London._

_“_ You’re telling me you danced in clubs? In the disco too?” 

“Maybe not”, he says. 

“Yeah, maybe” 

It’s nice, speaking to him like this. No more excuses in hand, just open and genuine, talking over nothing. He feels like he’s right next to you, through the phone. You watch as the door pushes open, and Emily walks out. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, her face serious. She must think it’s work or bad news. You grant her a relaxed smile in reassurance. 

“Go” Hotch says in your pressed ear, hearing her too, “I have to finish watching the doc” 

“I’ll talk to you soon” you say to him and Emily’s not even hiding the curiosity in her face. 

“Saya” Hotch starts, and you look down at your feet, not wanting her to see through you. It feels like she’s interrupting something intimate, even though it’s just a phone call. 

“I’m glad you called” 

Your heart is full, bursting almost, at the millions of possibilities that his words open up. 

“Take care” he says. 

“Bye” you mumble and hang up. 

Your face must be heated, maybe redder than you’ve ever been, and your body is incredibly warm as you step away from the wall, and walk over to Emily. Her stare is questioning but she doesn’t ask anything aloud. 

\-- 

You take off your heels first thing, once you make it inside. Lock the door and toss the keys, before making it to the kitchen, turning the lights on as you go. The clock on the wall indicates almost 1 am and you know you’d gone overboard. The drinks weren’t the problem. It was the karaoke and dancing that followed. You turn on the tv of your living room, to a news channel and grab the desserts you’d bought before coming home, still in their bag, and a water bottle from the fridge. You drop unceremoniously on the sofa, your limbs finally finding rest. The noise from the tv, too nonsensical to your tired ears, and the softness of the couch tissue, they all make you sleepy. Your phone buzzes again and it takes everything out of you to open your eyes and reach for it over the coffee table. You answer it, leaning back, your head flush on the couch, eyes once again squeezed shut. 

“This better be good” you mutter, and bring a hand up to rub at your eyes. 

“Hey” 

That hoarse voice, works better at waking you up than your fingers do. 

“Aaron?” you adopt the usual worry that crosses him, mind reeling already: _is it Jack, is it him, is it the team, or a case?_

“Are you home?” 

“Uh,” your eyes go to the clock again hands pointing at 1:30am, and you force yourself up. “Yes, I just got in. Everything okay? Please say yes.” 

“Yes” he says but you remain unsure. 

“I can’t sleep” he confesses. 

You relax then, returning to the couch. Kick your feet up on the table. 

“I’m here.” You repeat, “talk to me” 

“It’s nothing serious” his voice is muffled, and you picture him in a huge bed, in the dark, looking up at the ceiling. “I had a nightmare” 

It’s common since everything that he does is related to criminals – yet you are still worried. You’d had your fair share of nightmares and still do. Of contorted faces and glaring eyes. Of butchered bodies and corpses. 

“It’s happened other times” he states, confirming your theory. “I know how to handle them, but this one-“a sharp intake of breath and you bite mercilessly at your lip, reminding yourself he wants to be listened to, not mended. 

“It was, it _is_ scary.” His voice is a hush, and you fear moving, afraid any noise you make will overpower his words. Him being vulnerable like this seems like a fragile thing, ready to break. 

“It felt real” 

You wish you were right beside him, wanting to comfort him. 

“I had to make sure it wasn’t” your mind redraws him again now as he stands in the corridor, peeking into his son’s bedroom watching him sleep soundlessly just to make sure he’s alive and healthy. That picture is wiped out from your imagination as soon as he speaks again. 

“So, I called _you_ ” 

You suck in a breath, his words freezing you in place. Your brain scrambles to make a logical conclusion to this – that you’re a former colleague from the BAU and he’d seen you get tackled and shot at and he still worries; or he’s drunk and nonsensical; or _you’re_ still drunk and misheard it. 

Then, _again_ , still stuck in this parallel world where Hotch has just admitted you had been the subject of his dreams, you hear him, still soft: 

“Can I see you?” 

You stare at the paper bag, unopened – it was a habit, buying junk food after going for drinks with the girls. Mostly McDonalds or some other oily fast food. And you’d done so this evening, but you’d passed a 24-hour open diner and thought of cookies and muffins, and somehow, you’d ended up with both. Though you’re not the least bit hungry anymore. 

“Yes” you reply, no hesitation in your voice. You’re already up, the paper bag in hand, and tossing a jacket over your shoulders. “I’m coming to you” you say and head out with your car keys in hand. 

\--- 

You’re thankful for the late hour and the little bit of alcohol still in your veins, otherwise standing in front of Hotch’s door at 2am would have made you nervous. There’s an eerie calm to your movements. The drive had been peaceful, the city empty with no traffic all the way here, the radio accompanying the ride with smooth tones. None of it allowed your mind to race. You don’t even knock as you step over his doormat, ready to. The door flies open with him on the other side. Whatever you’d expected him to look like, he doesn’t. His hair is tousled, like he’d been in bed seconds before, and he’s wearing red pajama bottoms and a matching unbuttoned red shirt over a tank top, revealing his toned form. It’s the most casual he’s ever been. And it’s a bit unnerving. 

“Hey” he says and you say it back in a breath. 

You walk inside and already the air between the two of you is thick with unspoken things. He leads you to the kitchen. The entire house is dark apart from a few lampshades that makes your way around easier to find. He’s made tea and pours you a cup as you stand by the kitchen door. Your phone call of moments ago is fixed in your brain wrapped in a cloud of impatience – _what did he see_? 

“Black or green?” he asks, taking you out of it. 

“Do you have ginger tea?” 

“Sure” 

He keeps himself busy. Readjusting the kettle, then opening drawers, tearing through tea boxes, finding just about anything solely to not meet your eyes yet. He finally finds a lemon, ginger and turmeric mix for you and black tea for himself. He carries both mugs and he turns towards the living room. You’d seen the room the few times you’d been here, but you’d never stayed for longer than 10 minutes. Now with a lampshade casting warm lighting and the low volume of the tv playing over nothing, it feels like crossing a new territory. He sits down on the big leather sofa in front of the television, placing the cups on the coffee table. There are two options: the couch on his left, positioned at an angle to the sofa, or right by his side. You pick the latter, closing in the space, forcing him to acknowledge you. Not that he hasn’t insofar. His breath had come out raggedy when he opened the door, relaxing upon seeing your figure. Then was the tea – you’d mentioned ginger a long time ago and you _must_ have had something to do with it suddenly being an addition to his pantry. You plop the paper bag before his tea cup and he turns at last. 

“What’s that?” 

“Weed” you say with a straight face. 

He cocks an eyebrow. “You want to get high?” That look is enough to make your body heat up. 

_Maybe, you should have done that_. For the nerves that suddenly reappear. 

“It’s the legal version of it at least” 

His long fingers unfold the bag and he peers inside, the smell of sweets wafting out. 

“You bought me breakfast?” he glances at you over the bag. 

You are lit aflame immediately at the implication. 

“No, that’s not-….” 

His lips twitch in a playful smirk, 

“You’re so easy” 

_Extremely easy, apparently._

_“_ Bastard” you mutter through clenched teeth and he chuckles. The ice broken, like no time has passed between you two. 

“Maybe _you_ need weed” 

And that about acknowledges your state too. 

You gasp, “what?” 

“Strike two” he says and puts the bag down. 

“What’s strike three going to be?” 

And you want to say something risqué, making him as squeamish as you feel under his stare. But he beats you to it. 

“I like the club attire” 

You’d forgotten to change into…well _anything else_. Wearing a blue crop top that could literally be a cross between corset and a bra with its plunging neckline and exposing the skin above your navel. A black leather jacket covers your back but not your front. Paired with baggy jet-black mom jeans with sneakers – replacing the heels you left at home. It literally is your club attire. All crop tops were. Yet he’d never seen you in one. Your cheeks are heated, and it doesn’t help that you can sense the warmth radiating off him too, so close to you. He smells like fresh lavender again. He always did when he was home, you’d found. Most probably an after effect of house chores and having done laundry recently. 

“I like the hair” you counteract, your rebuttal not as teasing as his. His right hand goes to it though, combing it with raking fingers. Attempting to fix it. Causing it to stick out in more directions. It’s an intimidatingly attractive move. Your lower lip is sucked between your teeth, willing you to keep your thoughts innocent. 

“How was tonight?” he repeats that same question from your call at the club. He wants to steer the conversation away but you don’t want to yet. Not after he’d mentioned you were in his dreams _. Was he expecting you to brush past that?_ You take a sip of your tea, and the liquid scorches a hot path from your tongue all the way to your stomach. 

“It’s hot in here” you drawl. 

You shrug the jacket off your back, eyes glued on his. His eyes stay transfixed on your exposed shoulders. You shake your head. _He should know better_ \- playing all coy when he’s the one who’s more affected. You eye the tv remote on the sofa’s arm on his left and you’re grinning. An idea pops in your head. You lean over him, back arched, shoulder brushing against his front, and grab the remote. 

“Sorry” you say, lingering in that position. A glance, and his breath is caught in his throat, eyes dark, not leaving your lips. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, and you raise your eyebrows. 

“Nothing’” 

You lean back, your body still turned fully to him. 

“Don’t do that-“ he says, his voice husky. 

“Why not?” you turn your attention to the tv and flip to the next channel, and increase the volume. Nothing could be as interesting as the man beside you, but you need air, and most importantly, some semblance of control. His long delicate fingers cup your chin, not harsh, but you shiver either way. He turns your head to him, and he’s moved – he’s closer, his knees coming to bump against yours. You hold in a breath. His lips are so close, and your own part in anticipation. 

“Hotch-“ you say exasperated. 

He shakes his head slightly, “what did you call me on the phone? _Say it_.” 

His tone is imposing, authoritative and you’re already a puddle, melting under his touch. You gulp, swallowing thickly. 

“Aaron” His first name rolls from your lips, and he inches closer, your eyes shutting on instinct. His hot breath fawns over your lips making you shudder. You wait for the contact in agony but nothing comes. You open your eyes, feeling now the cold loss of his proximity. He’s back on the side of his couch, mug in hand, sipping tea calmly, eyes to the tv. 

_What the fuck._

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. 

_Did you just imagine that?_

“Aaron” you repeat, and you cross your arms over your chest, almost pouting. 

“Hmm?” he doesn’t even grant you a look. 

_Motherfu_ _-_

“Are you for real?” 

He reaches innocently for the bag on the table. 

“Do you want a muffin?” He offers. 

Your patience is thin. Your fingers latch over his knee, cupping his thigh, nails biting into flesh. _Enough is enough._ He’s always playing these games of hot and cold – of quick emotions showing through him before hiding them just as fast. His head twists sharply to you. You hold your body up in your knees over the couch. 

You close the distance – your free hand turns his jaw bringing him to you. You crush your lips over his, messy and mostly teeth as his surprise still runs rampant. But it gives you release. You’re hovering over him for a split second, waiting – and then he reacts. His hands cup both sides of your face bringing you aggressively to him. His mouth guides yours. His lips, soft and warm, shoot heat throughout your spine. He tastes like warm tea and a hint of fresh toothpaste. And he smells heavenly – the lavender and leftover tinge of his cologne overwhelming your senses. You almost collapse over his chest, but your knees hoist you up. You detach from his mouth, his large hands falling to your neck, thumbs stroking your jawline and cheeks. You reposition yourself over his lap, straddling him, knees open on both sides of his thighs. Standing over him, your stomach pressed flush to his front, a billion emotions well up. He’s been so much to you. Someone to look up to. A friend. A confidante and more. And he looks absolutely handsome. _Captivating._ And you already miss his lips on yours. 

“You’re beautiful” he whispers, his voice gravelly from your effect on him. He traces your already swollen lips with his thumb, letting them part on instinct. You need a bucket of cold water for all the unholy thoughts crossing your mind in seconds just from his fingers so close to your mouth. 

“Come here” he whispers against your lips, before he pulls you down again. What was first aggressive and rushed, now turns passionate and slow. His tongue trails your lips, your mouth opening for him, as his tongue finds yours. His gentle thumbs and fingers on your jawline guide your movements. Your chest is pressed against his, hands resting over his hard, broad shoulders, clawing at the material of his shirt, whenever a moan escapes you. One of his hands wraps around your throat, gently, and it lights your whole body on fire. Sitting over him, the slow friction of your two bodies is tantalizing. 

_Fuck._ You’d never expected it to feel _so good._ You hadn’t even pictured it going this far. You’d dreamed it – stupid scenarios from back at the BAU of being late at the office that resembled more the films that caused your brain to rot. Funnily enough, before you’d transferred, it had become so bad that only a simple look from him would have gotten you distracted for a full 2 hours. You’d never told that to nobody, not even realizing it yourself. Yet here you are. 

Like two horny teenagers grasping at one another with unfathomable desperation. _God._ He lets out a moan, a harsh grunt once your fingernails find his hair, scraping deliciously over his scalp. His hair unimaginably soft. You have to tear yourself apart from him, to finally get some air. And the both of you stare wildly at one another. Lips swollen, faces flushed. Your grin is wide. His hair is doing your absolute _favorite_ thing – rebel strands falling over his forehead. You can’t help but reach out and run a hand through it, and he leans to the touch. 

“Thank _fuck,_ you saw me in your dreams tonight” you breathe out. 

He smiles, and moves his palm flush to the nape of your neck, few fingers diving into your hair, massaging the back of your head. The other hand toys with a loose strand that has fallen over your eyes. 

“I didn’t call you for _t_ _his_ ” 

“I wouldn’t have minded if you had” your own hands drop down, trailing over his chest, feeling the hard muscles there. His heart beats fast under your palm, matching yours. 

“ _clearly_ ” you add. 

“I really didn’t-” 

You kiss his lips fast interrupting him with a small peck of reassurance. 

“You really should have, then” 

His eyes drop to your lips again. There’s an unreadable expression in his gaze. 

“What?” 

“I never thought it possible” he says, voice a whisper, and you know it's mostly directed at himself. 

“That I’d want to make out with you?” your tone is playful still. You can’t let it get somber, when you can still feel him like this under you. 

“That you’re attracted to me” 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s being timid now, after all _that_ , or if it’s expertly hidden insecurities reemerging, or just anything else you can’t predict. His eyes glint then, and it’s something else entirely. He wants control back again. 

_Bastard._

You intertwine his hand in the air with yours and bring it to your naked waist. 

“You feel that?” you ask, voice breathy immediately as his hand envelops your side, fingers trailing goosebumps already on your skin. “That’s from just one look from you” 

He watches you in fascination. The pad of his thumb traces your navel and you hold your breath. He doesn’t even need to do much. A small whimper escapes your lips and he catches it with his. His mouth moves to your jawline. Your head tilts to the side, giving him room to pepper a few kisses down your neck. Your eyes flutter shut at the touch, and you’re pure electricity. He leaves a few quick kisses at the side of your lips and cheeks, before leaning back on the couch behind. You force your eyes open - you must look like a breathing mess, body warm, fizzling at his touches, lips glistening red, and thighs pressed at his waist for more contact. His hand at the nape of your neck is warm, his thumb slowly rubbing the skin underneath your ear. Your mind is almost blank but you want to hear it from him too: 

“When did you-“you suck in a breath, as his hand at your waist moves up, thumb lingering over the hem of your crop top, a few inches below your breasts, “how did you-”. Your eyes open, meeting his, and he reads the question there. 

“Since when?” 

His smile lingers, dimples at the sides. 

“Since I first met you” 

You’re in shock. _He’s liked you before you liked him?_ He halts his movements. 

“Really?” Your voice is high-pitched. Incredulous. 

“You’re lying” 

He shakes his head, expression transparent. He’s never looked at you like this, his eyes regarding you with open adoration, brilliant and soft. 

“I’m not” 

So, that means even at work, even on your assignments, those late nights at the office letting you make fun of him and Rossi’s old school reprimands. Him making you coffee, then _tea, worried over your health._ Yelling at you back in March, and then again when he told you about the offer. _Everything, has new meaning._ But then. 

“Beth” you say lamely. 

“What about her?” 

You roll your eyes. 

“You had feelings for me and you dated _her_ ” 

The hurt of that period was one of your lowest. Mostly because you hadn’t realized the intensity of your own feelings. In a way, him dating Beth had helped yours surface, though in aching ways. 

He sighs, “I had to move on. Dave told me I had become a moping, withering old man.” 

“You told David about me?” you ask. You remember the wine therapy sessions – you talking about Hotch without explicitly naming him. 

“I didn’t have to. He’s a good profiler.” 

But you hadn’t been, or the rest of the team for that matter. You hadn’t been able to read him. 

_Fucking Dave._ He knew it and still told you to leave? 

“What advice did he give you?” 

He lets you out from his hold gently, to the couch beside him, your feet stretched over his lap. 

“To see other people. In the end, it didn’t work. You were always in my head.” 

“You dated her for a month” your voice is a whisper but you can’t help it that you still feel hurt. 

“I dated her because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I couldn’t control myself around you” 

You remember faintly that day at this office and those distance rules he’d mentioned. 

“I thought I was putting you in an uncomfortable position as a unit chief. I didn’t want you to feel trapped.” 

It’s not the most romantic of confessions but you still appreciate his honesty. He squeezes your hand and tugs at you gently. 

“Saya, when you left... I realized I let you go and that I could maybe never see you again.” 

You slouch closer to him, your eyes focused on his – painfully vulnerable. 

“I didn’t think you’d ever walk into the office again. I thought I lost you.” 

His admission is too overwhelming, too much and it amplifies your emotions as well. You’d thought the same that night too – only to realize it when you saw him again. You put a hand to your forehead. 

“David knew that I had feelings for you” you say aloud. “I was, well-“ he waits, looking expectantly at your face. You gather your knees close to your chest. 

“-miserable when you were seeing Beth.” 

He lets out a small apologetic smile. Your hand is still tucked between his two. 

“I didn’t know why, to be honest. When I saw you together, I understood then what it was” 

“So, you told Dave?” 

You bite at your lip, feeling embarrassed. You shake your head. David had been the final tie to this whole situation. Pushing Hotch to date had made you realize your own feelings, and then supporting you into leaving the BAU had forced Hotch to keep in contact – seeking your friendship outside of work. Hotch lets out a laugh, full and exalting. 

“That’s his best matchmaking yet.” You nod at that, “Saya, if you let me, I would like to make it up to you for that time” 

He doesn’t have to make you that promise and he doesn’t owe you anything either – not when you’d done the same too and dated other people. You shake your head, and you want to kiss him again. The new revelations finally putting a rest to all your turbulences. He brings your hand up, and presses a kiss to your fingertips. 

“If I kiss you again, I won’t want to stop” he says and your cheeks are flushed red again, like you hadn’t just been making out minutes ago. 

“I want to take you out on a date first” he says sensing your thoughts. You roll your eyes even though his gesture is kind and gentlemanly and it tugs at your heartstrings. You’d have to quiet down the other part of you that still wants to jump him. 

“Of course,” but you don’t want to stop touching him. Not when it had been impossible for so long. You rest your free hand over his thigh. 

“So, now let’s help you get to sleep” 

His eyebrows go up in question, followed by a questioning look. 

“With _tea,_ Aaron _”_

He lets out a low chuckle. 

“Of course,” he says, giving a light squeeze at your hand over his thigh. 

“We talk at daylight about the nightmare so it disappears completely.” 

And you can do it the whole night - keep yourselves from reaching over again with that same urgency. There are lingering touches, your arm over his chest, fingertips at his collarbone, to the exposed skin there, and his palm on your naked lower back. His thumb draws circles on your skin, as you try and fail to focus all attention to the screen in front of you. Then tucked in his chest, his arm over your shoulder and the other over your waist, chin resting on top of your head, you fall asleep together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes maybe Hotch thought he was gonna get sth else there at the end ... lol


	18. Dinner and Diatribes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First date with Hotch (and more)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes first date at last and my v poor rendition of a fox trot dance - here and more in this chapter  
> Inspiration from that v sexy scene at the end of Pride and Prejudice (u will see) and from that one episode (2x14) with Hotch and Haley bcs the cameras never panned out to them and i will hate that forever
> 
> also title song by Hozier bcs the lyrics are amazing

Hotch is a perfect gentleman. _He is_. Starting from showing up at your house one night to ring your doorbell with a big bouquet of tulips in hand – because you’d sent him a text complaining about a hard day at work; to trying incessantly, without ever giving up, on fixing a day for your very first date. Work got on the way, his, yours, even Jessica’s (unable to babysit Jack on certain nights). And you’d told him, while laughing on the phone with him, that normal would never exist for you two. But he insists, and that’s what you’d expected of him too. Though you would have skipped straight to couch napping (and not only) again if it were up to you. It helped that he also looked the part of those old romantic movies with epic soundtracks. Classic and timeless – that was him. So, you take a half day off, first-time you request one and shoot him a message. 

_I know you prefer restaurant date, but I’ve been eating out all week. What would you say for dinner at mine’s, made by me?”_

And his reply is prompt: 

_Only if I get to pick what we do afterwards._

You try not to let your mind fly away already to whatever that may be, and the many feelings that sprout up in your stomach. You make the focaccia first, putting it in the oven while you wash vegetables and potatoes to roast them later. Then, you stir and cook some chicken too, seasoning it perfectly. But Hotch arrives earlier that the time you’d told him – not even 40 minutes since your last message. Your doorbell rings and you don’t make an effort to clean yourself up or check your reflection first. You just open it, half expecting him to look disheveled and in a tank top, as if he’d ran here. Hotch smiles on the other side, tulips on hand like he’ handpicked them from a never-ending secret garden, and his presence, his appearance too – navy button up and dark slacks, looking ruggedly handsome – it all makes your knees buckle. As if sensing it he steps close, his free hand looping around your waist tugging you softly towards him. He places a kiss to the side of your lips, keeping it chaste, and smiles. It takes your breath away. 

“You smell heavenly” he grumbles over your ear, hot breath over your earlobe drawing a warm shiver down your spine. 

“That’s just chicken” you mutter and he presses a soft kiss over your cheek in response. “And you’re early” 

Your palm is firm over his chest, feeling the quick beating of his heart. All the affectionate texts and calls had been nice but they do not compare to the real thing. 

“I thought you could use a sous-chef” he says, smile wide. 

“You brought flowers” you say, focusing your attention on the bouquet in his hand, and feeling shy again. He hums, his large hand not leaving your waist as you guide him inside. 

“You’re spoiling me” you turn sideways just to glance at his reaction. 

He shrugs, “Not as you are me” he says, eyes skimming the short dress you’re wearing – white silk hugging your figure and reaching just a brush over your knees; and inhaling the smell of bread coming from the kitchen. 

“Yes, I decided to head back into the 60s and revert to living like the perfect housewife.” 

You stop before the sink but he never leaves you, even when you pick up a tall vase, fill it with water and place gently the flowers inside. He’s there even when you leave the vase over the counter and turn to face him, his hands moving to wrap on the sides over your hips. 

“Hi” he whispers, like you hadn’t just let him inside your house 5 minutes ago. And it draws a giggle out of you when his fingers find a ticklish spot. The sound is too much for him and he narrows the distance, your hands looping around him as he presses a kiss on your neck, not chaste anymore. 

“Let’s skip dinner” you mumble, your voice too breathy. His lips leave wet kisses in the spot under your ear, then trail your jawline all the way back to your collarbones. His touch lights up your nerve endings, and you almost don’t feel the harshness of the counter biting into your hips when the rest of your body feels so good under his ministrations. He shakes his head, stubble nuzzling your neck tickling you again. And you let out another laugh. 

“No, we’ll cook and then eat” he whispers against your skin, mouth over your neck again, sucking a sweet spot that makes your entire limbs feel like jelly. 

“I-if you keep doing that” a soft moan leaves you, barely audible, “I will implode” 

He laughs, teeth scraping against your soft skin and the second whimper that leaves your throat is louder. 

“Okay” he says and takes a step back, parting away from you. “Dinner, _first_ ” 

Looking into his eyes after he’d done that, together with his promise, should leave you red and shy. He’s always been so controlled and calm but seeing him like this – it fires up your body in new ways. Especially since his eyes are dark and intense regarding you, enjoying silently the effect that remains from his lips. Your hands intertwine together over the nape of his neck, fingers massaging his scalp and hair. 

“What” you ask, when a small smile appears over his lips. 

“Nothing” he says innocently. 

“Do I have to make you say it?” 

He lets out a laugh. 

“Depends. How would you?” 

And you should finish cooking, you really should focus on the dinner half prepared. Even if just to celebrate the fruits of your stress-baking and -cooking, thinking about how two workaholics would make a relationship even last, when it took them years to even admit their feelings to one another. Yet you lean in, pressing your chest against his, and crush your mouths together. Everything is a whirlwind afterwards – hands palming the skin under your dress, fingers scraping and tugging his hair; teeth biting lips in open-mouthed sloppy kisses; your legs hooking around his waist at once, as he places you gently over the counter. It’s so difficult to think about anything else when he’s so good with his hands. And tantalizingly good with his tongue. 

“ _Fuck”_ you breathe out when he detaches himself from your body, hands still resting over your lower waist, the silk of your dress bundled up over your stomach, pressed against the material of his shirt, revealing your bare thighs. His lips move but you can’t hear anything when you’re this focused in trying to regulate your composure. 

“Saya, _sweetheart_ ” and the pet name brings you to your senses. He chuckles when he notes you hadn’t paid any attention to his words. 

“Sorry, what?” you ask, shaking away the sinful thoughts on your mind. 

“The oven” he says again, “we should get the food out” 

Your mind reels in to your surroundings, registering at last the ringing of your oven alarm. 

“Shit” you say under your breath. But he doesn’t let you get up. He moves expertly towards it, grabbing an oven mitt, leaning down and taking the focaccia out. The way his biceps flex in that shirt, and his back muscles too – it’s unholy torture and you’re so glad he hadn’t been wearing these same well-fitting shirts around the BAU back then. It might have made your emotions not as subtle as they were. Actually, _maybe_ he should have worn these shirts earlier. He places the pan over the table and turns off the oven. 

“I’m not cooking anymore” you voice aloud, eyeing the quick motion of his fingers as he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, and his forearms too, toned with visible veins, “not when you look so good doing that” 

Especially when his lips are kiss-swollen, his shirt a bit disheveled from your hands and his hair sticks out unruly. 

He chuckles, “I have no objection.” 

You hop off the counter and grab a knife on the way to him and he takes it. He cuts a slice of bread and holds it out to you in his hand. You lean in and take a small bite and he does it next, sharing the same that same piece. 

“What did you call me?” you ask, leaning over the counter with both elbows, realizing a bit too late his last words to you. “Are we doing pet names already?” 

It’s endearing. You’d kissed countless times before, the most memorable being when you’d driven to his house to offer him comfort, all secrets unraveling themselves. And there hadn’t been much else in between. The runs through the grocery shops while he was buying food – his only free time, and morning coffee meetings – your only free time, have not been enough. Not when you spent it mostly talking, and stealing quick kisses only in the car rushed by the clock and other obligations. And it takes you by surprise how easy the name had left his lips. 

“You don’t like it?” he asks. 

You bite your lower lip, shaking your head slightly. It’s not that you don’t when he can make every single word sound incredibly sexy. It just doesn’t hit the right spot – you tell him so. 

“Darling?” he asks, trying it out, “as in _darling_ , how do you want me cut these vegetables? Or darling may I have a plate?” 

You grab a porcelain one from the cupboard, but don’t let him take it when he reaches out. 

“Too old-school. I’m back with Audrey Hepburn. And for the vegetables, why don’t you show me your talent, instead? I’ve heard so much of your cooking. I’m starting to think it’s all made up.” 

He laughs as he slices through the bread. You leave the plate over the table beside him. Your lower lip is tucked between your teeth watching the way his large hand wraps around the knife, the other one around the bread too. 

“So, no _honey_ or _sugar?”_ he places the bread over the plate, smiling as he does so. 

“I’m not 100 percent against honey” you confess and he leans in to press a quick kiss against your lips, before going on to arranging the plate over the table with the other dishes. Next, he moves to the cutting board, where you’d left in a row the vegetables: zucchinis, eggplants, bell peppers, onions, garlic and tomatoes, together with basil and rosemary. 

“And _dear?”_

You shut your eyes, and shake your head. _God_ , whatever he says is just a lot. You’re not even hungry anymore. This is just the world's longest torture catered specifically for you – pet names uttered sweetly by the man you’ve been harboring feelings for, for over 2 years. 

“It’s digestible” you tease, and he closes the distance again, pressing a kiss over your right cheekbone. You pick up an apron from the counter. He raises his arms up, watching you reach over to tie it securely over his waist. Your attention falters halfway through when you wrap your arms around his waist, not quite being able to tie it without looking at it. Doesn’t help with focus that his hands move to rest over your shoulders, massaging your muscles. 

“I need to tie this” you mutter half annoyed, but his thumb traces your jawline all the way down to your neck, rehashing the spot where he’d kissed you before. It makes you melt, the smell of him perfectly and utterly captivating to your senses. 

“How about _angel?”_ He asks, and you nod against him, but not without a sliver of hesitation crossing your mind first. He senses it and presses another kiss to your temple. His fingers move to steady yours behind his back and he helps you tie at last the apron. 

“ _Sweetums_ _?”_

Another one and it still manages to stumble your steady breathing and control. It’s the rumble of his low voice and his touch too. They contribute in increasing the heat in the pit of your stomach. You nudge him, and he laughs. 

“You’re not taking this seriously.” 

“Sorry” he whispers, lips brushing your earlobe, but his voice is unapologetic, “I’m enjoying the effect of my voice on you” 

Of course, he’d figured it out – _bastard_. You’re pure electricity, all because of him. 

“Has it always been like this?” he watches you with deep curiosity. 

And you want to say no and blatantly lie, like you’ve never had to conceal a blush on your cheeks in your life from him even when he was just yelling at unsubs, or when his morning voice was still there in early calls to the office. And you shake your head. 

“Are you lying, _baby?”_

And your fingers latch over his biceps, nails biting into flesh. 

“Oh, you like _that_?” his voice is a pitch lower and you nod feverishly – the reactions from your body too visceral and out of your control now. 

“Let me finish this, _my sweet girl”_

And you cup his cheeks with both hands and lower his face to yours and in to kiss him – a need so sudden and strong that it overtakes everything else. When you part for air, you’re both a mess, ruined by the passion of your kiss, and his smile is dimpled. 

“We should finish cooking” you repeat, more so to yourself than him. But you make no effort to move. He plucks you easily, planting you over the counter beside him, and he starts to deftly cut the vegetables – finishing the job you’d started. 

“We finish dinner _first_ ,” he says, granting you a small devilish smile, “then I want to see what _else_ has an effect on you” 

\---- 

With a lot of effort and much convincing, he manages to get you out of from the dining room first, then outside the door – with the promise of the second thing to do after dinner. You’d honestly pictured something that did not mean departing from your living quarters, but you don’t oppose it. Curiosity is deep within you at whatever he’s planned. When you make it to his car, (he opens the door for you) and he’s in the driver’s seat, you take a pause to study his features. He’d been so perfect in preparing the food, easily taking over and exceeding anything you could have hoped for. And communicating with him during dinner had been fun too – talking about nothings and everything, about Jack and what he was like when he was born, then respective childhoods and such. It was pleasant and easy talking to him, but you enjoyed the little teasing that came with it as well. His little remarks over the food prepared; his eyes lingering on you, knowing exactly what you were thinking about when you watched a second longer his movements over the table; and later on, his arm slung over the top of your chair, bringing it closer to him, so you were too. He turns the ignition on and feels you watching. His dimples are deep at the sides of his smile. 

“Will you pick the music please?” he asks, voice light like you’ve never heard it before. 

“I’m busy” you reply, as you hook on the seatbelt. 

“Saya-” he glances at you quick before returning his attention to driving. He backs away from your driveway and when you don’t make a move for it, he gives a light squeeze to your knee. 

“You have a very important job here” he says, encouraging you and you tear your eyes away from him to focus on the radio, just to humor him. You turn the volume all the way up and the first song that pops on is something pop and catchy. 

“What now?” you ask, and he shakes his head at your question. 

“Music is important” he says and throws you a look and you wonder what he means by it. But he continues: 

“It has rhythm and movement, you know” 

You look at the radio then at him – is he trying to give a hint somehow? 

“Yes, that’s how most songs work” you reply, and he smiles wider. 

“You seriously don’t get where I’m going with this?” 

When the car halts in front of a red light he looks at you again, eyebrows all the way up. 

“No?” you glance at the radio again – he's going to take you to a radio station, or _what?_

“I can’t believe I have the element of mystery here” he says with pride. “I’m very impressed” 

“Don’t boast” you say with a laugh. But his expression is adorable too, apparently too caught by the fact that he’s going to surprise you for certain. 

“I’m not. And I’m lucky this spot is near your place. Luck is on my side tonight” 

“ _God, I hope so_ ” you let out without thinking and he laughs wholeheartedly at that. His reply comes in the form of another affectionate squeeze over your knee. This time you catch his hand with yours, moving it up so it rests over your thigh. 

When he makes a right turn to a shopping street quite familiar to you, you already know you’re close to wherever he’s taking you. He parallel-parks on the side of the street and you make no sound, waiting for him to explain. You eye the signs – hotels, a few boutiques and a couple of bars. 

“Which one is it?” you ask. 

He points to the one outside your door, on your right. You look up to the sign ahead – _Seb's_ _Jazz Bar_ – flashing in dark blue and ivory lights. You’d never been before and he knows it too. Before you can ask though, he makes his way out and opens your door.   
“Will I have an answer soon?” you ask as you loop your hand around his. He smiles. 

“In less than one minute” he promises. And he’s precise as always. Making your way down the steps of the entrance to where the bar seems to be located half underground – the music is the first thing you hear. Loud and bopping against the floors and walls and you fear for a split second that you’re too unfit for the location. Yet the doors open up to a large hall filled with people dancing and swaying to the music, played by a band standing at the far end of the space. 

Hotch watches you silently, and you feel your smile expanding. 

“ _Aaron, you didn’t_ -” you start as the people before you dance beautifully with one another and hand in hand to whatever music plays. 

“You’ve brought me dancing?” you ask, and he nods. 

“Had to salvage my reputation” he jokes but you know whatever excuse he says, that it runs deeper than that. 

“ _You’ve brought me dancing_.” you repeat again and you can’t help the fondness that shows in your expression. It’s not only because of your teasing to him – how he said clubs or pubs or whatever weren’t his scene, and your recent talk on how you couldn’t picture him dancing. 

“I’ve been wanting to ask you to dance with me since Derek’s birthday party” he says and your heart jumps to your throat at his confession. That had been one of the first hangouts with the team, a party at a local club that Penelope had thrown for Derek. The music had been too much for you back then, but everyone had gotten butt-drunk and you all danced like crazy too. It was one of those rare occasions where you actually danced because you knew everyone wouldn’t remember it the next day. Hotch had been like Rossi too and he wouldn’t remember, you’d thought back then. Not by the way they only spoke mostly to one another, but from the fact that they seemed to drink more than the rest. Then had come the Christmas Party and the fact you’d danced with everyone apart from him. You never thought he’d be affected by that. 

“So, will you?” 

Someone bumps into your back, pushing you closer to him and his arms wrap protectively around your waist, bringing you nearer to him at once. Him, under the blinking red and yellow lights of the bar, looking handsome, and the fact you’d spent most of dinner looking at him, touching him, and whenever possible – kissing, it makes this moment much sweeter. You lean in to give him a quick kiss. 

“There’s nothing I want more” 

With a hand squeezing one of yours, the other dropping to securely latch around your waist he leads you to the dance floor. And he’s extremely good at dancing too. His hand is warm over your back, and he leads you to the music, and you imitate him, trying to keep up with his expert movements. 

“I’m not as good at it” you admit, when you step over his foot again, and he laughs. “I’m embarrassing you out here” 

“You’re perfectly fine” he corrects, “I’ve just had more years of experience” 

You cock an eyebrow. Does he mean because of his age, or because of Haley? He reads the silent question there. 

“Haley wasn’t too big on dancing” he says, and you squeeze his hand apologetically when you catch yourself about to step over his shoes again. 

“But I did learn because of theater and because I wanted to impress her” 

_Bless Haley and young Aaron trying to score,_ you think. They’d both brought you this version of him. 

“You have a past in theatre?” you question, surprise oozing out with your voice. He chuckles. 

“Yes, indeed.” 

“Give me something more,” you say, his cheeks are flushed – maybe from the heat of the room or from the car, or the dancing moves already. 

“Nope” he replies, “It was very short and I have no intention to relay more than necessary.” 

“I should have known” you say and he makes a daring move – he lets go of your hand and swirls you around. 

“Those acts in the interrogation rooms” you say and he lets out a laugh, “you’re very good at acting mean and scaring the bejesus out of people. Thought it was you being a good profiler, but turns out it was just a theatre kid rehearsing.” 

He laughs again and he catches you this time before you make a misstep and come to bump against his front. 

“I want you to follow my lead” he says soft, bringing you flush with his chest. Because of the music and the chatter of the people around, he says the next words close to your ear. 

“Start with your feet together and weight on your right foot” he instructs and you do as he says and bring your feet together and away from his. 

“Now,” he says, warm breath fanning over your ear, “with your left foot take one walking step forward, slowly” his hand moves up to the nape of your neck, making you heat up with warmth. You follow his directions, focusing only on his words and not his touches. 

“Step forward with your right foot” and he watches as you do so, hand at your neck sliding down your shoulder blades, spreading warmth there. “then step sideways with your left foot”, you move your foot where he says, and his hands drops excruciatingly slow downwards, following the curve of your spine. 

“Close right foot to left foot, quickly” and you arch your back on instinct when his hand lands over your lower back, sparking electricity to the rest of your body. You move your feet how he says and he plants a kiss over your jawline. 

“ _Good girl”_ he says, voice sickly sweet and husky. You’re not shy at pressing your body against his, even with the people around you, not when all you want to do is unholy things to his lips. He watches you, reading the desire in your eyes but his attention remains on dancing. 

“You have your weight on your right foot” he says and you nod, “now you’re ready to _rinse and repeat_ ” 

This time, when you both move together it fits perfectly and there’s no mistakes – both moving skillfully and confidently around the dancing stage. It’s exhilarating and entertaining, feeling your body move so freely and yet so in sync with his. You understand now why it is a big deal for him to dance together. It’s shared focus. And the way you both never glance at your feet to know how to move but into each other's eyes, knowing there is unspoken trust and a deeper bond there, is inherently romantic. 

“I would like to dance with you more, Aaron” you say aloud and he nods, content with your admission, visible in his brilliant smile. You pass three or more songs dancing like that, learning with time and experience to improvise new movements, not limiting yourselves to a certain style. Then the song switches to a slow one and his hands drop smoothly to your hips and your arms wrap around his neck, now justified by the music to press yourself as close to him as you can muster. As soon as you do, he presses a chaste kiss over your lips, his hands over your hips guiding the slow sway to the music. He tugs you in closer, so his chin and lips remain flush against your forehead. In his arms, and in his hold, breathing in his smell and knowing he’s felt the same and even more deeply since before you ever did – it all wraps you in a warm blanket of love and contentment. It fills you up from inside out, making your lungs almost burst. _You love him_. And it wants to pour out of you in a quick breath. You want to tell him that as soon as you can. It’s too early and too much to bring up to someone when you’ve only been in one date. But you don’t hesitate at all, even as your heart beats fast and unsteady inside your chest. 

“ _Aaron_ ” you start, your voice full of emotion. He catches the intonation and fluctuation of your tone and looks down at you. His dark brown eyes are soft and adoring, filled with those same feelings of peace and satisfaction you feel. 

“I love you” you breathe out and he kisses you before you’re even done talking. His mouth against yours moves slow and passionate, but all too sweet and still not enough for what you desperately crave. 

“ _I love you_ ” he repeats, in the same quick breath, as soon as you part. “I’m sorry it took me so long to say it aloud” 

You shake your head, and make him stop apologizing already by kissing him. Because even though it has been far too long, far too many things keeping you apart – mostly just you and him, and your own respective stubbornness; you still don’t think it as lost time. Whatever your relationship had come to be now, it had grown throughout this period too, becoming more fleshed out. 

“Aaron”, and you beg this time, not wanting to remain in the public eye any longer, but wanting only him. “Take me home?” 

And he nods, having thought of the same thing. He grabs your hand and tugs you, making your way through the dancing floor and out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys im sorry im gonna be a bit late with the next update bcs im on finals lmao but i will be back i swear i promise the next chapter will be sth else and exciting (hopefully for u lmao) but thnx for all the kudos & comments! :)


	19. Motion Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small reveal leads you back to working with your former unit - the BAU. What does that mean for your relationship with Hotch?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. Thanks so much for the comments and the likes im so :')  
> I'm back with a new chapter - have been watching a lot of Elementary these days (my comfort show) so that's gonna be my inspiration for the following chapters. I didn't take time to edit this correctly and i'm sure its poorly written lmao but thnx again!!
> 
> also title from Phoebe Bridger's song ofc

The alarm blaring from the bedroom, heard through the open door of your bathroom brings a smile to your lips. You check yourself for a last time in the mirror and decide that you’d have to wear a scarf today, the weather outside just a bit below zero. To your evident surprise, Hotch remains sprawled over the bed, white bedsheets loosely draped over his body covering his sweats and the tank top he’s still wearing from last night. The alarm hadn’t made him leap out and get dressed quickly as per usual. He’s only moved a tad, his eyes open, and he’s calmly looking at his phone with that same attention span you’re always envious of. He stops though when you enter the room, eyes trailing up and down your figure and he smiles. 

“I thought I was the early bird” he says with a mocking tone, “You always complain about my alarms”. His morning voice is deeper and gravellier than his normal one. 

That reminds you that the scarf is not only necessity for the weather but also to hide the markings on your neck left over as a souvenir (and heated reminder) by him. You’d never thought of Hotch as being territorial in any aspect of his life, but you were quite surprised, and more pleasantly so, of finding out that he was over this - over you. You shake your head, feeling your face already flushed from the memories of last night. 

“I guess I got used to them. My natural clock can predict it now” 

“Lucky” he says with a hint of a smile. 

You shrug in reply and he watches you make your way in the room. From the wardrobe, to check what to put on and deciding on a turtleneck and jeans, opting instead in adopting a more casual style - to the chair at your desk picking up the files spread there and putting them into the bag at the feet of the table. You plop down on the bed at his knees, not wanting to get dressed yet and his hands drop the phone in a swift motion, stretching to reach out for you instead. 

“You’re not keeping my shirt?” he teases, sitting up and he goes straight for it, pulling you in swiftly in a kiss. It’s lingering and sweet. When he parts away your eyes remain closed, not quite ready to think about anything else but him for a split second longer. 

You’re donning his shirt – not the white button-up he’d chucked on the floor last night in the heat of the moment, as you’d already put it in your washing machine – but a black one he’d left a week ago. 

“I think the cold would suck the soul out of me if I did” you raise an arm up, showing off the short sleeves and he smiles. 

“I’ll bring you a pullover next time” he says and you shake your head – again that same territoriality, and the only kind you appreciated. He lets you go and you stand up, making your way to the opposite side of the bed. You scroll through the emails on your phone, showing him your back. The bed shifts under your weight and his – and you feel him move behind you. 

“What’s your plan this week?” you ask without looking up. Your attention is razor-sharp on the new update from Junie, a report on the last trails of Reus in Great Britain. He’d disappeared without trace after that first contact – first and last one when he’d been seen in a CCTV camera. That entire month spent in Scotland Yard had been fruitless too. Trying to retrace his possible entrances and exits to the country was fruitless. It was almost like he’d been dropped with a parachute smack in the middle of London – not even cabs, Ubers, or whatever else left to track him around the city. Not one character testimony either in the bar where his last victim had been spotted. Nothing at all. If it wasn’t for that one footage of his face flashing the camera before following the girl back to her house, you wouldn’t have been able to tell where he’d been. It all felt like mockery in a way – he'd joined a few groups in France, galivanted around trying to rob banks and failing, just to show up in London not long after, no future plans of his in sight. You open the PDF file but it is too heavy for your phone so your frustration is visible in your features and mannerisms as you drop it with a thud over the bedside table. You turn then, remembering the silent promise you’d made to yourself and Hotch. The major block between any of the relationships you’ve ever had was the job. If it wasn’t for the scheduling, it was the commitment. And if it wasn’t for the latter, it was because you’d started, after Revi’s death, to carry everything that happened on the job back home. You don’t want that with Hotch. Not only because you don’t want to hurt your own chances and be the saboteur, but also because he doesn’t deserve it. He does the same, leaving the phone on the other side. His worried eyes scan your face and there’s something he wants to ask. It’s etched over his furrowed eyebrows, and the way his mouth is parted open. Yet he doesn’t. You don’t want the unspoken questions to hover in between you, deciding instead to narrow the distance over the bed. He meets you in the middle. His hand tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, while his other one comes to rest over your knee. 

“I have to head back to work” he says, voice filled almost with regret as his gaze drops to your lips, “We have paperwork week” 

You nod, and shift closer, despite the reasoning in your head battling with the necessity to go to work earlier today. 

“So, there’s no urgency?” 

He shakes his head, hand dropping to your cheek, cupping it gently. “Not today” 

You want to kick yourself then, for hurrying up and getting ready – makeup and hair done – before talking about it, last night. He’d mentioned Jack being dispatched to his grandparents (Haley's side) from Thursday till Sunday, but he never said anything about work. You’d assumed, per your personal experience and from dating him for more than a month now that he’d be called away. Or shipped somewhere else entirely too. 

“You have to go?” he asks but it doesn’t sound like a question but a statement. You want to say no and stay longer, and cancel whatever plan you’d made the day before. Mornings with him just put the entire day into another mood entirely. Even a shared coffee over the counter while standing was enough to get you through the frustrations of the day. 

“I could stay” you offer, but he sees the hesitation there. “I really could” you repeat, willing your voice to sound more convincing. 

“It’s okay” he says. He pulls you in, planting a soft kiss over your lips, before standing up. “I'll leave work earlier today” he glances at the documents still piled over your desk, all on Reus, and stands there, waiting for a reply. You don’t remember when, maybe a few weeks ago, but once you cancelled on a date before joining Junie at the office, he’d switched gears. Instead of asking you directly, and without excuses, to come over or show up at your door unannounced like countless times before, he’d let the words hang there, simply showing you his availability. You don’t dare address it though, a small part of you embarrassed and even defensive over the fact that your work might turn into a problem, and not his – when he was literally a unit chief and had more pressing matters than you ever would. Comparison simply added to your guilt but you couldn’t help it. Not when you know up close and personal what his job entails. 

“I’ll come over after work?” you propose, your voice tentative. 

“I promised Derek and Dave to hang out for drinks tonight” He tears his eyes off the documents and runs a hand through his hair. “Everything okay at work?”

He always notes your frustrations but whenever he asks about Reus, he meets a wall instead – your words giving him nothing but a tight thread of vague statements. 

“Yeah” you let out, “I just wanted to go earlier today before the others show up. I am more focused then. Noise just gets to me.” 

He nods, not wanting to push more. 

“Come over tonight” he says then, his tone of voice changing too, gentler and almost pleading. Maybe it’s the fact he feels the loneliness as well, whenever Jack isn’t around to fill the large house, they’d both gotten. You stand up, brushing your hands to the thighs of your pajama shorts before joining him in front of your bed. 

“I can drive you home”, you offer and he cocks an eyebrow. After dinner at a well-known restaurant (per Rossi’s recommendation), and a good amount of wine for the both of you, a taxi had taken you to your home, so he’d left the car at his place. 

“Or even leave you at your workplace” you joke, drawing closer. He lets out a small smile, hands coming to wrap around your midriff. 

“Yeah?” he whispers, “you’d come all the way to Quantico just to drop me off?” 

“Yes” you answer, and he laughs. It is honey sweet his presence in the mornings, and even more so when you’re both trying to extend the time shared a bit longer each time, before heading out. 

“Another time” he promises, letting you out of his hold, “I don’t want to make you late. I’ll just get a cab” 

He turns to the drawers you’d freed for his clothes those first times when everything became a whirlwind and a mess of scheduling and nights back and forth from his house to yours, picking up fresh clothes. When you’re all dressed and ready, still on time just like you’d planned, you go to your bedside table. You take out the key you’d copied yesterday just for this occasion and when he’s out of the bathroom, you turn to him. 

“Hey” you call and he looks at you, taking in your heels as well. He’s still in pajamas, though he’s shaved off the morning stubble covering his jawline. 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be so slow today” 

You shake your head and hold out the key, “this is not how I'd planned to ever say or do this” you start and he looks at the key in confusion, as if not knowing what it could possibly be for. 

“A key to my apartment?” you say, “Not just because of today, obviously, but I want you to get in and out whenever, without ringing the bell. And I’d want you to, “you stumble over the words, the speech you’d rehearsed getting fumbled in your mind, “Of course, I want you to do what you’re comfortable with, and I – I want you to be here since we always end up here, either way”. 

The reasoning behind that being the fact you’d both made a solace in your small cozy apartment. Your makeshift office, covered in books floor to ceiling, with the large desks being equipped for two people to work at the same time, but still small and pleasant enough to almost be a lovely nook. That, and your bedroom – where admittedly, you both spend the most time. You wait, already wrecking your brain over how he’ll take it even though it’s been mere seconds since you’ve stopped talking. He nods then, and you leave your key over his palm. 

“Thanks for this” he says gently, and kisses you softly over the side of your cheek, not wanting to mess up your deep-red lipstick. “I’ll make good use of it” 

You let out a breath in relief, and the excitement is too much. You kiss him – damned lipstick or not. His teeth scrape your lips when he lets out a laugh against them, and his hand on your lower back tugs you closer towards him. 

“You’re going to be late” he says but it’s a flailed attempt as he doesn’t protest, his hands crushing you to him, until your bodies are flush against one another. You part after a long moment, the only excuse being the needed air in your lungs. 

“Okay, I'm going” you say but you linger instead – brushing a thumb over his stained lips, cleaning the remains of your lipstick. “I’ll text you later” 

“Okay, _baby_ ” 

\--- 

A tiny smile is plastered on your face the whole drive to the office. It remains there even when the printer stops working, refusing to print that PDF file sent over by Junie. Even when you take the first sip of coffee of the day – the batch too bitter and bad. Yet it fades away when you plant yourself on your desk in front of the computer, reading at last the file. The memory of the date with Hotch leaves you completely, once you get to the same result you never thought you’d get to for at least 2-3 years. Junie’s records had gone all the way back to a collaborator of Reus – Hana Jr. Sutone, a 27years old French citizen who he’d been in contact with since he’d left prison years ago. Junie had tracked her, finding out that wherever she’d last been coincided with Reus’ movements in Europe. Even London. You stare at the screen dumbfounded. Her passport had just pinged 2 weeks ago in the USA – at John F. Kennedy International Airport, in New York. _Reus could be in the U.S._ You push yourself away from the desk. It can’t be that simple. _He’s here, in the U.S_ –he could very much be. When Olivier and Junie walk into the office chatting with each other, they find you in that same position – staring at your computer, face in shock. 

“Morning” Olivier greets you with a smile. He takes in your posture, as they both reach your desk. 

“you got the report” he says then, voice switching to his serious tone. 

You nod looking up at him. Junie stops before your desk, offering you a kind smile. 

“Please tell me you haven’t been here since last night” 

_Last night_ , right. That’s when she’d sent over the report. 

“No” you say but she doesn’t look convinced. “I was out last night” 

They glance at one another at that but you don’t want to dissect the meaning behind it – _did they not believe you had a life outside of this?_ You stand up and they trail behind as you head to the conference room. Martins is not in yet, and you can’t call a meeting without him present, but everyone take seats around the table. 

“It can’t be this simple” you start, “we wreck ourselves to find him around Europe for half a year and then he just shows up in the U.S? It feels like a -“ 

“Joke” Junie finishes. “I know. It felt the same once I found Hana Jr. Sutone.” 

“It’s not simple” Olivier says, “we spent a long time chasing him around. It took us 6 months to find her, not one” 

“But if she’s traveling with him, why not be more careful? Why flaunt passports and train tickets and use credit cards everywhere?” 

Junie shrugs, “I don’t have an answer for that. You’re the behavioral analyst.” 

“Right” you nod, looking down at the file again. There’s no time left for you to overthink though as Martins steps inside, letting out a low whistle. 

“We’re all excited for work today, aren’t we?” he mocks and the others shift uncomfortably at the words. Yet his gaze lands on you and you don’t miss the irritability in his tone. 

“Morning” he says to you with a bite but doesn’t sit down. You hadn’t thought what this could mean for the power dynamics in the group. Interpol had the lead internationally but not in the U.S and letting him know Reus had entered the States could mean a shift in authority as well. You would be the first to protest that. But it was a part of the job you couldn’t avoid. 

“We have an update” you say and Junie meets your eyes, knowing what’s wrecking your brain. 

“Is that so?” he sits down beside you and you don’t want him any closer so you turn the files to him, pushing them away. He reads them while Junie updates him with a quick summary. You think he’ll rejoice, maybe go straight to ordering everyone around, but he stills. 

“It’s out of our hands, now” Olivier states, confirming your suspicions, “you’re the lead in the States according to our agreement” 

You suck in a breath and Martins finally reacts. He flashes them a small smile before turning to you. 

“We both are” he says. 

“What?” 

“You’re my second in command” he says and you shake your head. 

“We are a team of four people. I don’t think that’ll make much difference whatever position I hold” 

“Yes” he says thoughtfully, leaning back against his chair, arms folded over his chest. “You make a good point. We need reinforcements.” 

“We don’t even know for certain that Hana being here means he’s here as well” you interrupt. He raises a hand to make you hush. That action makes you want to snap. You bite your tongue before you make a rude remark. 

“Exactly” he says, “which is why my first order of the day is to ask for a collaboration with the FBI” 

“The FBI” you repeat, already annoyed. “Don’t you have an entire squadron of CIA operatives at your disposal ready to rough up any foreign citizen for information?” 

“Because” he starts, ignoring your question and your mean tone, “we need them to track a potential serial killer-” 

You suck in a breath and it can’t be – that can’t possibly lead to where you think... 

“And we need them to analyze their behaviors -” 

You stand up, emotions getting the best of you despite your trial not to let them. He’s doing this out of spite. That’s the only reason. If it weren’t for those few months where he’d question every single one of your deductions, then it would be his constant comments over why you’d decided to transfer from the BAU all of the sudden. He’d tracked and stalked every single person of this team – hoping to get to know them before you’d started working. He’d gone all the way back to your years with Aria, your transferal and demotion to a trainee at the BAU, then the transferal to the task force. You know in his mind he’d made all sorts of scenarios: that you’d fucked up somewhere in the field, all that swept under a rug; or that you didn’t get along with your teammates; or even, in some perverse world, that your relationship with Jonathan Reus was more intimate in nature than what you’d stated it was. He wants to uncover everything. He is curious, mostly, to why someone like you, young and inexperienced in his eyes, is helping in a task force that includes 3 of the most notable organizations. He doesn’t think you worthy enough, and that irked you more than anything else. 

“What do you say about contacting the BAU?” he asks, and his smile is devilish. He’s too pleased of your reactions, of whatever other conclusions he must be deriving. “You’re the liaison after all” 

And you stop yourself before you say something you’ll regret, and storm out. You know he’s probably already enjoying that reaction as well but you let it be. Calling Penelope is the only matter that presses your mind at the moment. When you’re out of their line of sight, all the way back to the small space they call the kitchen you press dial. Penelope picks up at the second ring. 

“Morning, sugar boo. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Her cheery voice helps a lot in calming down your nerves. 

“Hey Pen, I actually have an official request-” 

\-- 

You’d never imagined being back at the BAU offices like this. It’s not only because Martins is with you, walking at your side, too smug to your liking, but also because you’d thought your return would signify something more _permanent_. Penelope is the one greeting you first when you walk into the bullpen. Her smile is wide once she sees you, yet her demeanor switches quickly seeing Martins. The others, as Hotch had told you this morning, are sitting at their respective desks, nodding in greeting. Martins makes a beeline directly to Hotch’s office and you follow wordlessly. Unfortunately for him, you get along with every single one of your former teammates, and even better with your former boss. Martins walks in first and you take a minute – you'd never explicitly talked over this, over how to handle your relationship in front of the unit. It’s been a while too since you worked with them, with him. 

“SSA Hotchner” Martins greets and Hotch shakes his hand. You’re struck for a second – him standing in his office, wearing a gray suit and a burgundy tie makes you catch your breath like it had done years ago seeing him for the first-time in Dallas. You shake it off. It’s stupid, you’re literally dating the guy. Had kissed him goodbye just this morning. You step in closer, zoning into the conversation. 

“Operative William Martins, we spoke on the phone” Martins continues and Hotch nods. His face is a stone-set like it always is in the job. 

“Yes, Operative Martins I know who you are. I’m familiar with your task force.” 

That sentence catches Martins off guard, his face betraying his steeled façade. But he regains his composure quickly as you step closer. Hotch’s attention falls to you. 

“Agent Kuroki” he greets and you nod in response. It’s applaudable the fact he can remain so unfazed and it’s a habit more than anything. 

“Please take a seat” 

You do as he says, and he takes the head of the table. Although it’s your job to introduce the topic at hand, Martins doesn’t let you get a word in. He briefs Hotch on everything from the beginning – Reus’ route through Europe, his failures, the murder of the young girl in London and even on Hana Jr. Sutone. Hotch asks a few questions here and there but mostly listens. You’d passed through the appropriate channels before this meeting. Had contacted Penelope and then placed the request to the section chief directly. When all had been approved Martins insisted on meeting Hotch and you have a half a thought it’s to see your reaction to that. 

“Do you have a preference where we work?” Hotch asks once Martins is done. 

“No” he says, “but I know Agent Kuroki will be overjoyed to work here again, so I’ll let her decide” 

You wince, but try not to let it get to you. 

“Here is fine” you state. 

Unluckily for him, your reaction is not the one he’d been expecting. 

“Very well then” Hotch says and stands up. Martins and you do too. 

“I’ll brief the rest of the team -” 

“I would like to join too” Martins cuts him off. 

“Okay, I’ll help Junie and Olivier” you tell Martins but before he can reply, Hotch does. 

“Good” he says, “so we can start right away” 

_You grant him a small smile – you’d missed him in the job. Efficient as always._

\-- 

The conference room of the BAU has never been as full as now, you think. Spencer’s already bonded with Olivier and Junie, already catching all of their attention with his own geographical profile. He’s overly excited over the map – now going beyond a single state. Hotch and Martins are busy talking over an action plan over to the table, and Prentiss and JJ hover around you, smiling when you hand them each a cup of coffee. 

“It’s good to have you back here” Emily says, “I never thought it would be under these circumstances though” 

“For sure” JJ interjects and she squeezes your hand affectionately, “I’m glad you’re here. I just can’t believe we never caught onto the fact that Reus could have continued his trials.” 

“It’s shocking but expected” Emily says tilting her head to the side,” Reus has never been predictable, but he’s extremely organized. He’s compelled to kill again once he did it the first time.” 

“Yes” you nod, now pensive. You all make your way back to the roundtable. “That’s why we need to find out the first victim. If there’s a signature we can retrace his steps within the state.” 

You sit down beside Rossi who’s still looking over the report Junie had prepared. He looks up, directing his next question at you;

“Do we have anything else on this Hana Jr. Sutone?” 

Junie next to the board pipes up: “She’s got no criminal record. I went as far back as her adoption agency” 

You raise your eyebrows surprised and Junie nods. 

“Yes, she's adopted, and even that yielded no results” 

Rossi turns to you with a smirk, “Good thing we have a Penelope Garcia, then” 

She walks in at the right time, smiling wide at the compliment. 

“I wish I could prove your words but I came up empty. I can’t even tell you how it’s possible she met Reus when she’s seemingly been in France all her life” 

“Hold on-” you say and they all quiet down, even Reid next to his map. “Maybe we need to switch perspectives. “ 

“How?” Olivier asks, “we have to know who she is” 

“Obviously,” you stay standing up again. “But Reid,” you point at his map, “you’ve been analyzing his geographical profile – does Reus have a direct link to France?” 

He scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “He’s never been before the last months, as far as I can tell” 

“And yet this woman appears out of nowhere, writes to him once in prison before he leaves and that’s it?” 

“You think it’s an alias?” Hotch calls from the opposite end of the room – he's already read your mind. You nod, absent-mindedly. 

“Reid, could it be an anagram?” 

He moves to pick up a red pen and writes down the letters: Hana Jr. Sutone in bold capital and writes down every single word that he can rewrite. Then, it all falls to place – _Jonathan Reus_. He circles the name and looks back at you. 

“The contact at prison must have been a huge mistake for him that he’d forgotten to erase” you say aloud. 

Martins cuts your line of thought. 

“Is that enough as a confirmation for you, Kuroki?” 

For the first time ever, you don’t dislike when Martins addresses you. 

\-- 

The rest of the day is passed theorizing over Reus. Reid’s map is almost complete but Martins calls it a day, prompting you all to head home at 8. When he leaves, together with Junie and Olivier, you sit down at your old desk, the bullpen almost empty despite the fact the others remain working in the conference room. 

“You okay?” You look up to Penelope’s small tired smile. As predicted her help today had been more than necessary. She’d helped fill in the gaps of Reus’ travel patterns. After New York he’d left for Madrid first – then France, Luxembourg and then London. 

“Yes” you let out, standing up, “I hadn’t realized I missed the bullpen” you say with a flash of embarrassment. She pulls you in tight in a hug and it manages to relax your muscles at once. 

“I never asked” she says and lets you go,” how it’s been with Hotch?” 

You hesitate – so the moment of truth has finally come. 

“I never asked how you felt afterwards. You moved to the task force so fast and your work has kept you busy. Mine too of course. And I knew after Beth that Hotch’s seeing someone but-” she searches your eyes for something – confirmation or denial to what she’s trying to say. She’s known, after all, since that Christmas Party, how you felt over Hotch. Fuck it, you think, you can at least tell her. For sure Hotch won’t mind, not when it’s Penelope Garcia asking. 

“Is it – is it possible-?” 

You give her a small nod and she lets out a loud squeal. 

“Penelope-” 

“Fuck” she puts her hands over her mouth, “ohmygod” 

You nod again, your smile now wide, “Yes, we're dating.” 

The squeal of excitement that follows is quieter but still loud enough. 

“Oh god, since when?” 

You opt for the short answer, “A while” 

She hugs you again and you let yourself melt against her – the enthusiasm getting to you too. Hotch gets out of his office, slamming the door behind him, making Penelope and you jump apart, startled. You both follow him back into the conference room. 

“I called the NYPD” he says to the group, “ – they said they’d welcome us if we decide to head to New York. So, get some rest, we leave tomorrow and dress warm.” He turns to you for a brief moment, “Martins agreed as well” 

“Okay,” Morgan stands up first, “so, we’re still on for tonight?” That garners laughs from Emily and David Rossi. 

Before their attention falls to Hotch though, he’s left the room – heading back to his office. 

“We’ll talk later” you promise Penelope and trail behind him. 

The door is left open so you walk in, giving a small knock before doing so. He stands at his desk, already packing up. 

“Wow” you let out, “never thought I’d see that happening in real time” 

His face is steeled but his lips nudge upwards slightly, “you’re really packing up.” 

“I’m sorry” he says, looking up “I got a call from Jessica and I’m in a hurry” 

“Oh, yeah” you take a step back, “I hope Jack is okay” 

“He is” he reassures, “He’s still with his grandparents and she didn’t say what it’s about though, so I’m a bit worried” 

“Obviously, -” 

He puts on his suit jacket then his black coat, wrapping next the scarf around his neck. You know how he gets when something concerning Jack happens, and you don’t blame him. It influenced you too – you'd stayed up one whole night worried sick when he called you to say Jack had high fever, even though you’d been miles apart from them both, and you’re uneasy now too. 

“-call me if there’s anything I can do to help” 

He takes the suitcase and pauses before the door leaning in towards you, then halts remembering where the both of you are – his office, the bullpen, in the FBI building. He takes a step back, squeezing your elbow instead of kissing you like he’d first wanted to. 

“I’m sure he’s well, Aaron” 

He nods, “Thank you” 

With that he leaves, and you do too after a second. You’re not even on the stairs yet when you hear a quiet snicker at your right that you recognize a bit too well. 

“What’s up David?” 

He laughs wholeheartedly when you turn to him. He’s wrapped up in his own coat as he locks behind the door of his office. 

“Both of you are bad at being subtle” 

You wait for him to join you in order to descend the stairs together into the bullpen. 

“I’m done being subtle” you shrug. You’d done it for 2 years working at the BAU, you weren’t about to go back in time. 

He lets out a small hum, considering the whole situation. “So, your team knows?” 

“No” you say, and he smiles. 

“Will you tell them?” he asks again but he knows the answer either way. 

“No” 

“Then, I’m afraid you will have to, _kiddo_. But hey, for what it’s worth-” you both pause in front of the elevator, “you make a good couple” 

You smile in gratitude, and he pats your back lightly, “just, don’t screw it up” 

“I won’t, David” 

He narrows his eyes at you, not entirely convinced by your words, “ _I’ll hope so._ ” 

\-- 

Maybe it’s the last words David Rossi had told you before leaving, or the fact that Hotch hadn’t answered his phone the remainder of the night, or your own nerves at working alongside them all again. But you’re parked before his house, and it’s not unlike you. You’d done so a couple more times before – you both had developed this habit of showing up at each other’s houses. He’d do it after coming back from a case late at night, crashing at your place before heading back to pick up Jack from Jessica’s house. You’d do it later in the night, when you knew Jack was already tucked in bed and asleep, not wanting to disturb him, staying only long enough to see and talk to Hotch, until his presence managed to quiet down all your worries. This entire time, you’d never discussed Jack or where you stood with him. It was early – far too early in a relationship maybe. But your experience is lacking. You’ve never dated someone with a child before. And never a divorcee or a widower. So, you’d let that part of the relationship flow along Hotch’s pace. Whenever and whatever he decided, you’d be okay with – that's what you’d thought to yourself many times before. You step out of the car, taking the shopping bag with you. He’d mentioned once in passing how fussy Jack had gotten when they’d run out of Capri Sun (orange flavor) and you couldn’t think of anything else so you’d bought it before making your way here. You knock lightly on the front door, and you check your phone again. No calls, no texts. You lip is sucked between your teeth, as you wait. _What if Jack is sick again? What if Hotch is in the emergency room somewhere?_

The door opens before you but Hotch is not the on the other side. It’s Jessica. 

“Oh” you breathe out, embarrassed at once. You hadn’t met or seen her since that night at the hospital. 

“Hey!” she says, her face breaking into a polite smile, “I remember you! Saya, right?” 

You nod, and rethink all your plan – _Jesus,_ you hadn’t even talked about this with Hotch. You don’t know where you stand in relation to her as well. So, you improvise, picking up the safest choice, hiding at once the bag behind your back. 

“Good evening, sorry for this. Hotch said he had some files to hand me.” 

She looks at you with a mixture of surprise and sadness, but you think it’s more because his work follows him back at home. 

“Right” she says, “I’ll just go get him” 

You wait in agony, the door shut in front of you once again. Maybe you’d fucked up by showing up. 

“Saya?” the door opens in a flash, and his guarded features ease when he notes you at the door and not someone else. 

You’re dumb – you hadn’t thought about how vague and threatening that statement coming from Jessica must have been for him. 

“Hey, I’m sorry for showing up like this -” he steps before you, closing lightly the door behind, “but I think your phone died or something because you haven’t answered in 2 hours. I was worried-” 

“Yeah, yeah” he interrupts, “it’s fine.” 

“Okay,” you stop. He looks different, colder than his usual self. For instance, he’s still in his suit, not even his tie is loosened, his posture rigid, clenched fists at his sides and he avoids eye contact. 

“I thought we could talk about how we proceed as well” you speak softly. “working together, I mean” 

“It’s not a good time” he simply says, “I can’t do this right now.” 

You wait for a hint of explanation or something else to come but it doesn’t so you retreat. 

“Okay, uh- sorry then. I didn’t mean to disturb” 

He solely nods, and it’s a bit painful that he’s put-up walls so quickly. Then you remember the capri sun, so you show him the bag. 

“You said Jack likes these, so I thought I’d help you not run out of them tonight at least” you offer a small smile but he shakes his head. 

“I have to go, Saya. I’ll see you at work” 

“Okay?” You hesitate because that can’t be all there is – he doesn’t owe you an explanation but it would be nice to at least have one. When you nod and step back, he bids you goodnight and closes the door, not waiting for you to get to your car like he always does. There are a million emotions swarming inside you. You can’t help but notice it more clearly now – how he always avoids talking about a future with you and Jack, both in the same space. How whenever he talks on the phone with Jack, he stands up, going to another room. You understand that after Haley he'd be reluctant to let another woman in Jack’s life. But you don’t know where that leaves you. When he thinks of his future – does he think of him and Jack alone forever? 

You text the first person you can think of – David Rossi. 

_Saya: is wine therapy night still a thing?_

He answers when you’ve turned the ignition on. 

_Rossi: no. But you’re welcome to join guys’ night_

And before you reply he sends you the location. You decide that’s almost the same and drive away from Hotch’s house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have to apologize again bcs the updates might get longer again. I have another final next week and three more until the end of January and yes im dyin but writing this story helps me relax in a weird way.  
> So let me know what u wanna hear/read!! or any comments pls i'd v much appreciate!  
> (there might be angst followin the next chapters just fyi but theres gonna be a lot of bonding with the team which is wholesome)
> 
> ((also if u wanna reach out pls doo i have twitter (same username as here or tumblr: @rivierasunsetdiner)


	20. Rest in Pieces Peace of Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ~SPICE~ ahead  
> writing this made me go thru an existential crisis lol ! and after a comment from you guys that i couldnt stop thinking about - i did my first ever trial of writing something ~spicy  
> In italics: flashbacks

You should have gone for a beer or a martini instead. Even a whiskey, like David Rossi had ordered, would have been better instead of the glass of wine. Not because you’re worried about the hangover, but because red wine always put you in a whole different mood. And you ended up thinking about Hotch. 

\- 

_He leads you outside, his hand clasped firmly around yours. Its gentle but still aggressive – both of you caught with that same urgency to leave the bar. When you both make it into his car, he’s back to being too gentle, too sweet – his hands securing the seatbelt for you, as if making sure you stay put and keep your hands to yourself until you’re in a more private setting. The ignition is on and he turns, hand over the shoulder of your seat, watching the back of the car as he reverses out of the parking spot. He’s too calm and you’re a mess. It takes far too long (for you) until he drives away, and his hand is back over your knee._

_“My place” you say and he grants you a small smile._

_Hotch’s self-control is monumental, you think. Yours, not so much. You cup his hand over your leg, and unabashedly move it slowly up your thigh, towards where you need it most._

_He lets out a low chuckle, “we have all the time in the world” his words are reassuring but his voice has dropped a pitch, the low rumble contributing to the heat in your stomach._

_“Fine” you rebuff, and you still, waiting for his cue (and impatiently for your house to appear in the horizon)._

\- 

Rossi drops at the seat beside you, another triple whiskey in hand and lets out a small huff. It shakes off your distant memories. 

“Fairly certain this was not a good idea” he says, “not when we have to be up tomorrow at the crack of dawn” 

You don’t know what to say to that – mostly because being here together with them is better than spending your time alone at home, dwelling on the meaning behind Hotch’s actions, or Martins recent shift in leadership. 

“I think we need to let go of a little steam” Derek says, joining the small table you’re huddled around with David Rossi and Spencer Reid. “It’s instrumental to doing a good job in the days to come” 

You flinch at that. _Days to come_ – granted Reus doesn’t escape again from your clutches. 

“I’m not opposing it” David says, “I’m here, aren’t I?” 

He winks at you with that last sentence and you give him a small smile. 

“You’re sure you’re not here to make sure we pay you back for all the drinks you bought us over the years?” you ask. He shakes his head, raising his glass to your eye level. 

“This is my last drink. I don’t want a hangover on a plane ride” 

Spencer and you both had the same idea – both still nursing the one glass you’d gotten when you all first met. He has a beer though. 

“You guys are no fun” Derek says, but he’s also on glass number two – an unusual sight for him. 

You take another sip of your red wine and the smell of it takes you back once again. 

\- 

_His lips taste like wine, and they’re soft and warm against yours. You’ve chucked your jacket in the living room floor, and his hands graze every inch of your body as you both stumble in the hallway, making your way to the bedroom._

_“You taste so good” you breathe out against his lips, without a second thought, your own hands tugging at his dark locks. Your lips meet his teeth as he smiles against you, the act of it making your heart beat faster. But that feeling goes away fast, as another one replaces it – his mouth moving smoothly down your neck, quiet whimpers leaving your mouth at the sensation of his tongue and lips._

_“Bed” you plead shamelessly and he does as you say, his hands on your waist guiding you to the surface, sitting you down._

_"Are you sure about this?"_

_For a second you're quiet because - because goddamn,- you'd practically begged him to leave the bar, to be alone with him. You'd dreamt of this far too many times to admit it aloud and yet he's so careful._

_"Yes" you say, voice certain and full._

_You take a minute, watching him as he unbuttons the collar of his shirt, enough so he can breathe better and his chest peeks out. He leans down on the ground before you, taking off his shoes next. The curtains of your room are drawn open, and the full moon shines bright ivory over his skin and hair. It seems surreal almost, that you’re here with him, in your bedroom. But you have no thought left over as you feel his fingers at your ankles, unstrapping your heels. He's so soft and tender with you that it surprises you every single time. A hot shiver passes through your spine as he plants a kiss over the cusp of your knee, his hands sinking underneath the hem of your dress, climbing up your thighs until they find the waistband of your black undergarment._

_“_ Aaron- _” the word gets muffled as he stands up again, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss._

_You stumble backwards on the bed, him over you._

\-- 

“- I don’t like that Martins guy.” you hear Derek say as you zone back in. “He seems narcissistic” 

“Oh, he is” you cut in, and Spencer gives you a small smile. “He is” you repeat, “the most annoying individual on earth” 

“So, that means you’ll be back, right?” David asks, but you ignore it, focusing instead on Derek. 

“What’s his expertise in the CIA? "He chucks his beer down in one gulp, and leans back down on his seat at last, elbows over the table. “I asked Penelope to run a background check on him. I don’t trust that guy.” 

You laugh, you’d almost done the same but Junie had given you that information without you needing to ask. Apparently, disliking Martins was a common thread for the team. Though, Olivier would probably never admit it. 

“He’s mostly worked abroad, in Yemen and Iran and undercover for a few years in Germany” 

Derek nods thoughtfully, “And he’s the lead of the task force?” 

“Yes” you reply, “per our agreement the CIA has the lead if Reus was to reappear back in US soil, but we had Olivier leading us when Reus was in Europe” 

He nods, and Spencer leans closer to hear you all better, his arm coming to brush against yours. 

“That explains a lot” he says, “Olivier and Junie seemed a bit reluctant today” 

You glance at him, “you were studying them, Spence?” but it’s mostly mocking and he gets it too. His lips are pulled into a tight smile. 

“Their body language” he says, “they’re too rigid around Martins” 

You nod because it’s true, and you don’t blame them – anything Martins said to them sounded condescending and patronizing, even when he asked Junie today how far along in her pregnancy she was already. Like he hadn’t been there that first time when she announced it to you all – it was downright disrespectful. 

“Junie won’t join us tomorrow” you state, just to inform them, “She’s on her third trimester and she can help Penelope.” 

“Lucky her” David says, “for not having to deal with Martins on the field” 

“Right” you say, and the temperature of the bar has become too much – or it’s the alcohol already in your veins making you overheat. You shrug off your jacket. 

\-- 

_Hotch’s devilishly good with his hands – that's all your brain registers as he makes his way down your body. His fingers grip you harshly by the sides of your waist, as he leaves kisses down your neck to your collarbones and god-_ _a loud moan escapes you once his lips nibble and kiss down the valley between your breasts, the rest of you still covered by your white dress. You’re growing impatient of the fact the only thing between his skin and yours is the mount of fabric that he refuses to take off._

_“_ Be patient" _he orders you once your hands find the hem of his shirt and pull it to you, wanting to unbutton it all._ “I’ve waited a long time for this” _, he says swatting your hands away. The low grumble of his voice vibrates over the skin of your navel, and it’s almost too fast the way your legs part open. Instead of doing_ something _about it though, his hands smooth down the silk of your dress on your legs while it hitches up higher over your thighs. He's so methodical in knowing what to do to rile you up, like it's a work of art. And_ fuck, _it_ _doesn't ease your frustrations – you sit up, cupping the sides of his face bringing him to your mouth._

_“I’m not going to break” you let out in a flurry. He watches you perplexed and before he can react you free a hand to tug at your dress. In a blink you pull it over your head – yanking it off in one perfect quick motion. You throw it to god-knows-where in the floor of your room. “_ Don’t take _another 2 years. Just fuck me, already." For the first time in his life, you think you've rendered him speechless._

_But he finally obeys your line of thought: everything else that follows is the opposite of gentle._

\--- 

“-what do you think, Saya?” 

You snap out of it. _Jesus Christ, it’s embarrassing._ You feel your cheeks and neck heat up at once – you can’t be doing this here, around them. You’d just been talking about Martins 2 seconds ago and yet Hotch is all you can think about. That man has ruined you. 

“pretty boy here” Derek repeats, slapping a hand over Spencer’s shoulder, “is single and the bartender has been eating him up with her eyes all night long” 

Spencer like you, for entirely different reasons _obviously_ , is flushed red, and he looks down not meeting your eyes. He’s flustered more than anything else and you glance at the bartender Derek mentioned and though it’s far from where you all are, you can see she’s cute, pretty indeed. When she finishes with a client she looks up, finding Spencer. She meets your eyes and looks down, mimicking the same reaction Spencer had done seconds ago. 

“That’s true” you say, “the second part, I mean” 

Spencer furrows his brows at your words. 

“Go get her, tiger” David chimes in and you feel for Spencer and for the macho-masculinity in the table. 

“I can be your wingman” you offer to him, hoping he reads your true intentions. The others grow interested at your idea. “If I flirt with you at the bar, she’ll hop on. Competitivity and everything.” 

Not that you’d ever do that and Spencer _knows_ you wouldn’t. He shrugs then nods, standing up. 

“That might work” Derek says and he gives you a high five which you reciprocate. “I’ve missed you around here, _birdie_ ” 

You shake your head and let Spencer lead the way to the bar. He plops down on a barstool, far away from the bartender who’s got a crush on him and you sit beside him. 

“You’re not single” you blurt out and he looks at you surprised – confirming your words. 

“How’d you know?” 

“I have my ways” you say, but his eyebrows remain up so you answer truthfully, “usually when Derek tells you a hot girl is checking you out, it doesn’t take you forever to react. They might call you shy but I’ve seen you’re not in that respect” 

He smiles, “I am dating someone” he says in a small voice, “we haven’t talked about exclusivity, actually. So, I don’t know if he’s dating someone else while seeing me” 

You try not to overreact – not when he drops that info on you so casually – but you’re overjoyed over the fact that he’s being so honest with you and that all your first thoughts about him had been proven true. He senses it though and raises his arms up, inviting you for a quick hug. It catches you off guard but you don’t let it slide. You wrap your arms around him and he squeezes you briefly before letting go. 

“Spence, I’m so happy for you” 

His full smile is beautiful, the dimples at the sides of his face cute – and you’d missed him like this. Happiness suited him. Then, you refocus on the fact he’d admitted his relationship troubles. 

“It’s okay if you bring it up, you know. It’s never too early to know where you stand with someone” 

That’s rich coming from you, when you’re not even following your own advice. 

“I know” he says, “It’s just we were good friends before and I don’t know how to bring it up in a natural way, without feeling like I’m breaking something. Or accusing him of not being trustworthy. I don’t know if that makes sense?” 

“Spence” you let out, a bit amused from his reaction, “you’re super confident over everything else-” 

“I know but all of my readings say that most situationships end before they even begin, only because of that question” 

You take in a breath, “Spence, you said you were both good friends before, right?” 

He nods. 

“Well, a good friend knows what you think of them, without having to ask you. And they wouldn’t be dismissive of your feelings and worries. They have your best interest in mind. That’s the good thing of dating someone who’s your friend first-” 

You think back to Hotch – you can’t help it at this point. You withholding your worries at work, and the source of your stress had placed a block you hadn’t realized was there, in your relationship with Hotch. You hadn’t allowed him to be your friend, _first_. 

“They understand you better than you do yourself, sometimes” 

He watches you for a second, as if noting your words are not 100% directed to him, but he says nothing. 

“I’ll consider it” he says then, “I’ll let you know how it goes?” 

You clasp his hand over the counter with yours, “You can reach out to me for whatever, Spencer” 

“Thanks,” he says, “What do we tell the others, though?” 

You flash him a smile, “I have an idea. Follow my lead” 

He does as you get closer to the bar – and without anyone seeing, you tip generously the bartender, dropping cash in the tip jar. Her attention from Spencer shifts fast as she notices you – her hands clasping yours to thank you at once. The others catch it though – Derek and David laughing when you both make your back to the table. 

“She’s not straight” Spencer lets out in a laugh, glancing your way, “turns out she hasn’t been eyeing me” 

You shrug, “sorry Spence. Maybe next time” 

\--- 

Heading to the girl's bathroom turns out to be the worst idea of the night – the thudding of the loud music against the walls resembling faintly other obscene noises from that first night with Hotch. Concretely, _the steady rhythm of the headboard of your bedframe hitting the wall behind._ Before your mind goes there though, you splash cold water over your face, willing the memories away. You take the phone out of your back pocket, seeing the clock announce well after midnight. No texts or missed calls. Rossi, Derek and Spencer had all called the night off and you were going to share a ride home with Spencer but you don’t think it a good idea now. Not when you won’t pay attention to a word, he’ll say the entire way back. You don’t linger though, and get out. They all wait outside for you.   
“Everything okay, kiddo?” Rossi asks noting the state of you – face, neck and lips red. 

“Yes, just the alcohol” you reply, “I didn’t eat dinner before coming out, so I’m a bit drowsy” 

_Part_ of it is true. 

“Good that Reid is taking you home” Derek says as he hauls a cab. “Rossi, should we go?” 

The other man nods, and he squeezes your hand affectionately before following Derek into the cab. 

“Thanks for back then” Spencer let’s out once their car disappears from your line of vision. 

You wave it off, “Don’t mention it” 

He turns fully to you then, hands in his pockets, his tall stature imposing but friendly. Yet he looks too serious. 

“It goes both ways, you know.” 

You cock an eyebrow quizzically at his words. 

“If you ever want to talk, even about _your_ relationship troubles, I'm here.” 

You suck in a breath – so he knows about you and Hotch. You don’t even know how or since when. You laugh out of embarrassment. 

“I don’t think you’d want to hear me talk about -” 

“He’s my boss” he cuts you off, catching the next words you were going to say, “but he’s still a human male, Saya, and I don’t find it inappropriate. You’re my friend.” 

\-- 

The drive back is pleasant and utterly nice – Spencer tells you about the mishaps around the office, and even about Henry dressing up as him for Halloween. You’d chuckled, making a mental memo to ask JJ a photo later on. The cab with Spencer in it, leaves you before your front door, only leaving when you make inside. The quietude of the house gets to you fast, and you pluck a water bottle from the fridge before heading to your bedroom. You can’t help but check your phone again for the millionth time. At nothing new, texts or calls, showing, you shed your clothes in the dark, and when you sit in the made-up bed you touch something soft and cashmere, foreign to you. You stand up, turning on the bedside lamp. The room washes with a soft yellow light at once. The fabric at your left is a folded brown quarter-zip that you recognize as Hotch’s. You don’t even know when he’d left this here – probably this morning after you’d left, which meant he’d gone back home, and come back all before showing up at work. The entire thing too sweet to not let it get to you. _Would it be too daring if you wore this tomorrow at work?_ You bring the material to your face, inhaling unashamedly the smell, that it was entirely him – the fresh lavender of his laundry detergent and he’d for sure sprayed some of his cologne too, because it smelled like it. _Damn,_ you think, _he’d really gone overboard._

_\--_

_“I want you to watch me” he says, his voice confident and low, sounding more like a rough order. It makes your skin burn hot. A hand of his grabs the back of your head, bringing you up, directing your eyesight to where your bodies meet. When you do watch, his pace gets harder - your bedframe slamming repeatedly the wall behind with every move he makes. Everything makes your body react, electricity lighting up your entire nerves. Loud nothings erupt from your throat at every back and forth you do together. Even the movement of his hands as he grips your thighs and then your legs, moving them over his shoulders - elicits soft moans. The new angle does wonders for the both of you. He's so good at that - at knowing what to do and say exactly right down to the root of it only to get the most out of your reactions. Your nails scrape the skin of his back, surely drawing blood, as your moans get progressively louder. He even makes you do and say things you didn't know you had in you._

_"Good girl” he says before crushing his mouth against yours quieting down your whimpers and whines, and that’s when everything blanks out. He doesn't relent the rhythm though, chasing you down from your high, as he reaches his._

_“Fuck,” he breathes out against you. The chant of curse words from his lips starts bringing you back, second by second._

_"You’re so good" he mutters, voicing the same thoughts you had drawn up for him. He doesn’t let you go, not even after he rolls away from your body, bringing you with him, until you’re wrapped fully in his arms. Your tired laughter fills the room immediately after and he smiles too, brushing a tender kiss over your sweaty forehead._

_\--_

You jolt awake, your natural clock not waking you up before your alarm this time. You reach out with a hand and throw the alarm clock on the other side of the room. The impact over the ground doesn’t shut it off so you get up, despite not wanting to. 

_Okay, so maybe working with Hotch again will be harder than you’d first thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always lemme know what u think and for real goodbye for a later update lol!  
> (lemme know if anybody else has a hotch playlist lol)
> 
> Y'all thnx for reading! I have to reinstate that I don't dare write smut bcs for starters, english ain't my first language and I don't want to subject you guys to the hellscape that that would be. But !! here i tried to do sth (and maybe i failed miserably lmao so lemme know) but take it with a grain of salt! and i know it's cliche ofc but it's honestly so hard to write sth that's supposed to be implied and is hot without making it sound like you're writing a bad ya book
> 
> the song title is from Jealousy by the Neighborhood bcs that's part of my sexy Hotch spotify playlist lol  
> 


	21. Roses/Lotus/Violet/Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A robbery-homicide takes you to N.Y, thinking Reus is behind it all. Meanwhile, being around Hotch while working with the BAU, your own team nearby, is tough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! quick preface - this chapter (as mentioned before) and case is very heavily based on Elementary's Snow Angels episode (season 1 episode 19), quite straightforwardly, a rip off 😝 because my brain cannot conjure up case storylines but! hope you all still enjoy.
> 
> Yearning is back in style babey 🥵 (also some fluff ahead)
> 
> Title from Hayley William's song

The first text on your phone is from Martins and it brings you back to the BAU offices. He’d mentioned that NYPD had suspicions that Reus was behind a robbery-homicide that occurred just last night. 

When you’re in the bullpen you see nobody around. It’s dead quiet. Your eyes go on instinct to Hotch’s office where only a lampshade is lit on. You turn to leave but somehow, he’s already noted you. 

“Saya-“ he calls, now standing below the doorframe. “Good morning. Could we have a word?” 

Your legs move on their own volition – your mind still struck by his actions last night, and the memories that had placated your dreams. Hotch doesn’t move from the door as you walk in, the distance between you two not even trying to be within the confines of professional. 

“I’m sorry about last night” he says right away, not wanting to beat around the bush. And you’re struck. 

“Haley’s parents showed up last night wanting to talk about Jack. It was a very long discussion.” 

_Haley’s parents._ And they probably blame him too – for his lifestyle, his work, their divorce, and most definitely _Foyet_. Your mouth falls open, wanting to say something, but his hand clasps your elbow lightly. 

“I am really sorry for casting you away, I shouldn’t have- “ 

You shake your head- now everything making absolute sense. Even Jessica being there and her face falling when you’d asked for Hotch under the justification of work. Probably not helping his case. 

“Hotch, it’s fine. Are you okay?” 

He takes a deep breath. You note now what you’d witnessed also yesterday – the deep scowl, his tired frown and the dark-purple set circles under his eyes. You can tell when he hasn’t slept or when his mind has been restlessly running. 

“Yes, it’s not the first time” he says and you inch closer, your fingers looping around his. The small squeeze is not enough for the comfort you want to offer but it seems to relax him. There’s the tiniest release in the lines between his eyebrows and you’re glad. 

“If you want to talk about it-“ 

“Thanks” he says, his hand on your elbow running smoothly down to your knuckles. 

There’s movement outside that flips a switch for you both – separating you at once. You cast a glance towards the open door but there’s nobody in the bullpen – probably just the printers or the usual noise from the elevators whirring. The fear of being discovered is still there though. He returns to his desk, picking up the to-go bag, 

“We should talk about the team” he says then, rehashing your own proposal from last night: navigating working together. Unbeknownst to him stuff had changed since then. There was Penelope, David Rossi and even Spencer Reid already on the know. And these were only the people who explicitly confirmed it. 

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about” you say shrugging. It’d been a while working around them and well, - they’d probably known since before you ever knew about your own feelings. 

“I mean most of them know” 

“You told them?” he snaps back, “we should have discussed this first” 

The severity of his tone throws you off the loop. 

“Hotch, they’re _profilers_. If they didn’t, they’d be super bad at their jobs” 

“So, you told them?” 

And it’s stupid, but you lie – a defensive and childish instinct arising just because he seems so pissed off. 

“No. I didn’t.” Not to Rossi and Reid at least. 

“Saya-“ 

“Fine, so Penelope and Spencer know. It’s not a big deal-“ 

“I’m their unit chief” he says, voice too serious. It all opens up the same wounds he’d struck last night, over not letting you into the other part of his life, and being so avoidant whenever you mentioned Jack. 

“I have a position here-“ He starts but you’re quick to interrupt – 

“Right because only your reputation is at stake here!” 

That efficiently quiets him down, hands now crossed over his front. 

“I think we should make some rules” you let out before he says something else hurtful, “we haven’t worked together for a long time and this case is important to me. I don’t want to be distracted” 

There’s a flash of something crossing his features but it’s too quick for you to decipher as his face becomes set as a stone. 

“Fine.” He says, his eyebrows slightly rising up, emphasizing the word. 

“For starters, I think we shouldn’t discuss private matters in the office or in the field” 

Not that Hotch would ever, but it’s for your own peace of mind. And that reminds you – 

“And no unnecessary touching” 

This is _beyond_ childish and you’re being way too transparent, because _why else_ would you bring that up now. Why would it be the first thing in your mind? And you think he notes it too. 

“As you wish” he says, not addressing the implication of your words, or the crimson red that settles on your cheeks because of it. 

“I have to catch a plane with Martins” you say turning to the door. 

He picks up the remaining stuff over his desk and reaches you. 

“Didn’t he notify you? He’s left earlier with Olivier, as soon as NYPD informed us.” 

_He left? Without telling you?_

“What?” 

“You’re hitching a ride with us” he says, straight-faced. He seems too unaffected from your demand of a distance – yet he brushes against your side before exiting through the door, despicably trying to elicit a reaction from you. 

_Fuck._

_\------_

“Oh hoho, look who’s joining us at last!” Emily’s extremely loud, her arms reaching for you immediately as you plant yourself in the seat next to hers. JJ, sitting before her smiles widely. 

“I’ve missed being around women” she says and you laugh. For her specifically, it was 2 guys at home – Will and Henry, and then 4 others at work. 

“That’s why they told me to take the plane with you” 

She laughs, the sound of it hitting you with a wave of nostalgia. 

“Okay, my sweet, beautiful goddesses” Penelope's voice fills the otherwise silent plane ride. 

“I don’t have anything as of yet but last night’s robbery was just that, a robbery. They shot the night shift guard and there were a thousand stolen phones – last edition about to hit the market just today” 

“What’s the verdict from the NYPD?” Hotch asks, sitting at the side of the table, Reid slouching over the sofa arm at his left. 

“They’re investigating – it’s on hold” 

“Okay, then Reid you can go see if they missed something from the scene” he orders. 

There’s something irking you because Reus is in NYC and because you want to make sure he has nothing to do with this yourself. 

“I want to join if that’s okay” 

“Martins and Olivier will probably want to coordinate with NYPD at their offices” Rossi says, surprised at your decision. 

“Then I’d be better help somewhere else” 

“Very well” Hotch says, nodding at you. 

“We’ll hold down the fort”, Rossi jokes. 

The remainder of the flight is spent in true BAU-fashion: planning and discussing Reus again and why he’d spent so much time with the alias he’d chosen as a runaway. 

Then, somewhere along the line, and encouraged by Reid and the smell of coffee he brings with him everywhere he goes; you head to the small plane kitchenette. 

“You’d think us having a plane would mean we could afford better coffee” you say, feeling someone approach. 

You turn, expecting just about everyone else but Hotch. 

“Nice observation” he quips, dead-panned. If you didn’t know him as well as you do, you’d think the little twitch upwards of his lips is sarcasm or mockery. Instead, it’s amusement and playfulness, hidden underneath a thin layer you’d come to read well. 

You remember then your ridiculous list of demands – only there to give you some control – and you step back, pressing against the wall of the plane. Enough so he can squeeze by, taking his turn at the coffee pot. Yet even with the freedom you allow him, and mostly due to the tight space, he’s still so close, his cologne already wafting in the air between you two. The hot memory of your first night reappears just as quick. 

_His hands on your hips. His lips on your thighs._

There’d been so many after – too many to count as every single outing, however short had transformed into something else entirely. Too many memories spanning in the short time of dating him. 

“Kuroki?” he repeats and you’re shaken out of your thoughts again. 

You bring the coffee cup to your lips, feigning nonchalance. 

“Hm?” 

He goes silent, whatever question on his mind temporarily erased, as his eyes regard yours, then dropping to your lips. It would be so easy to hide it, to pretend he hadn’t come to know your looks and the thoughts behind your eyes but it is needless. He _knows_. You take a sip, the hot liquid burning the tip of your tongue before trailing down your throat. The hot path it follows to your stomach, makes you painfully aware of the pit of heat pooling at the end. You wonder if he does it too – dream and rehash every single encounter like you do when away from each other for too long. There’s bitterness in your mouth, leftover from the bad coffee. And you lean in, not caring anymore about upholding your own rules. Your hand brushes his elbow as you reach for a packet of sugar in the jar at his right. 

The small kitchenette becomes another world, separate from the plane of existence where the others are. 

“Aren’t you hot?” he asks then, a slight rise of eyebrow that you immediately find attractive in its simplicity. His quiet self-assuredness always is. 

There’d been a reason why you’d stuck with keeping your coat on, even on the plane. You are wearing his quarter-zip unashamedly. Not holding back after he’d tortured your dreams last night unknowingly. You’d just pictured there’d be separate planes. Separate tasks. Separate times of working together. Too much of it that you wouldn’t be able to be around each other. You’re becoming redder and warmer by his lingering gaze on you. And you completely forget the context you’re both situated in. It would be so easy to reach out – _the easiest_ _thing_ in the world – to close in the distance and kiss him. His eyes are darker than before, already affected by the knowledge that you’re struck by him. 

There’s a distant sharp ping from the other side of the plane – resembling a phone alarm. His attention on you breaks first. Then Penelope Garcia’s voice reaches out to you both. 

“What is it, baby girl?” Morgan asks, and you snap out of it. 

Hotch is first to leave, taking an empty seat at the table where the laptop with her face rests upon. 

“Just heard from several weather experts that NYC might get hit by a heavy snow storm tonight or tomorrow.” You hear her say as you approach them, still standing as is Spencer on the opposite side. 

“What does that mean?” Emily asks. 

“Unfortunately, I do not know.” Penelope replies, “Hopefully we can still communicate but just in case I informed NYPD to get you radios and other basic necessities” 

“Is the hotel far from the department?” Rossi asks next. 

There’s an aggressive typing on the keyboard and then – 

“Yes” 

_That won’t do._ If you’d all be separated by the distance then intel would get lost. They’re all staring at you, your last words had been said aloud. Yet there’s a fresh idea in your head. 

“Garcia, did Martins and Olivier land already?” You ask, leaning close so she can see you. 

She nods, “Junie is already here too.” 

“Good” you reply, taking out the phone from your pocket, already texting Olivier. 

“Is everything alright?” JJ asks, her worried eyes on you. 

You don’t know yet if the plan will pan out but you voice it either way. You do so as you type out the message. 

“Olivier has a residence in New York – part of the list of assets for protecting witnesses fleeing Europe. I remember he mentioned once that it was a 20min walk from the police department. For obvious reasons.” 

“Oh, that’s a good idea” Garcia chimes in, “because I can’t bear the thought of not knowing where everyone is during a snow storm” 

“Especially since cellphone towers might not work” Morgan says. 

“It’s up to Olivier” you state, and Hotch nods. 

“Then we change plans” he says, quickly taking the lead, “everyone to the department first to get the appropriate equipment before dispatching to the field” 

That means you and Reid. 

“It won’t be until tomorrow” Reid says thoughtfully. “It would take time if they clean up the crime scene beforehand-“ 

“Fine” Hotch says, changing his mind again, “but make it back on time so you get the radios” 

The last sentence is directed to you and you see the hint of worry in his face. You nod meekly, as does Reid, mirroring your posture as he stands in front of you. Your phone buzzes and you read the previewed text, the reply from Olivier arriving quickly. 

_Olivier: thought the same. I’ll arrange for a_ _cleanup_ _and we can all move there from tonight. When do you land?_

“Olivier approved” you tell them as you eye the watch wrapped around your wrist. Per your calculations it would take less than 10 for the pilot to already start landing in the airstrip. You type back fast and plant yourself over the couch, Reid copying your quiet movements sitting beside you. When you latch on the seatbelt you see he does too, as does Hotch. 

“Very well” Hotch says, “Garcia tell the police chief we’ll be there shortly” 

Earlier than predicted the seatbelt signs flash on overhead, as the pilot’s voice fills in the room announcing the arrival at NYC. The others shuffle around taking their places, and Penelope disappears from the laptop. JJ shuts it off and Rossi at her side lets out a breath. Everyone slowly becoming prepared. You already feel adrenaline in your blood. 

_Now you’re in the same city as Reus._

_\--_

The detective on the case – Detective Parker out of everyone – greets you at the scene. The lobby is filled with police officers and NCIS crew, dusting off for prints. Reid steps in first, you after him. 

“You got here quick” Detective Parker says. “Lucky your plane was able to land” 

“Yes” Reid replies, not even attempting to near the detective, but following instead the trail of blood from the door to the station where the guard sat. “We were told the situation got worse just now” 

“This is Frank Dempster” Parker says to you, Reid listening in as he crouches in front of the body. 

“The cleaning crew found him at 5:00 this morning. He’s been dead for about three hours. Thief was long gone and nobody saw anything” 

“I assume no security footage?” you ask. 

“No. And no sign of forced entry, so Mr. Dempster let the murderer in. He was shot right there-” he points a few meters by the door, at the first trail of blood found, “-dragged behind the station at which point-” 

“He wasn’t dead” Reid says, “He got off one shot before he took a second wound” 

You follow to where he stands, and even from afar you can note the bullet wounds on the victim, one over his shoulder and the next piercing his chest. You stay put while Reid moves again, quicker this time as he leans to mimic Dempster’s eyesight, at what he must have seen his last moments. It leads him to the staircase on the other side of the lobby. He notes the bullet hole on the wall and the small blood splatter. 

“The height of the bullet lodged in the wall here and this splatter suggests that Mr. Dempster’s final act was blasting a hole through someone’s abdomen.” 

“A through and through like that would require medical attention” you fill in for him. 

Detective Parker nods, “Yes, we put the word out for all hospitals in the city, even Red Cross storm shelters are keeping an eye out. We’ve already notified Agent Hotchner as well.” 

“You said this was Reus?” you ask now. You’re not certain either if this is his doing, not when he’d thrown out the last member of his team that had gone off script and murdered someone. 

“I don’t think it is” he says, “I heard you’re looking for a killer thief and well-” 

Reid interrupts, “Phones were stolen?” 

“Yes,” he says, “supposed to come out at midnight today, but somebody clearly couldn’t wait.” 

He leads you out to the hall nearby, a ground floor Apple store, that’s been ransacked clean. 

“They took all the floor models and about 500 from the supply room” 

Something catches your attention, a single blonde hair synthetic and too artificial to be real, over the display table. 

“We’re looking for a group of thieves” you say, and Reid sees it too, the small strand of hair that’s so clearly from a wig. “One may be a woman and I suspect that ‘’she” did the shooting” 

Detective Parker looks at you both perplexed. 

“The hair is synthetic” Reid points out, “comes from cheap blond wigs. Probably got stuck to the packing tape when they opened up a box to verify its contents” 

“Given the wig” you start, “most definitely murdering the guard wasn’t part of the plan” 

“So, she had help?” Parker asks. 

“Could be hard to carry around a stack of phones after being shot in the gut.” you let out, “So, most definitely two accomplices and since this neighborhood doesn’t allow for flexible parking spaces, a driver to help in getaway.” 

He nods, finally writing down everything you and Reid had just said. 

“So, it’s not Reus” he reinstates, “I mean, it’s a clear-cut robbery-homicide. We find the phones to find the killers” 

There’s still something bothering you and Reid notes it too. Yet saying it is Reus could be a stretch for the department. 

“We’ll assist you if needed” he says, a silent promise directed to you that you both continue investigating as long as you have doubts. 

\- 

\-- 

Back at the police department, everything is a mess from people hurrying back and forth to assist in emergency response. Detective Parker has called for an emergency meeting amongst his officers, his voice loud and boisterous as he directs orders. 

“In case of shutdown we operate on backup power. That means essential functions only so we don’t overload the generator” 

A young woman in her thirties stands at his side, looking as authoritative as him. 

“This is Denise Castor. She and our friends at FEMA have already hashed out a plan for our great city.” 

She speaks next, taking the floor, “I want you to divvy up your people between road closures and rapid response. We may even have fewer hours than predicted before this storm hits” 

You slide in through the officers, Reid doing the same until you both approach the conference room the team has taken. Everyone is seated around the table apart from Hotch and Martins. The latter nods at you in greeting as you walk inside. 

“How was it?” he asks, “were you able to tell if it’s Reus?” 

“I think something is strange” you let out, not knowing how to explain it otherwise. 

“Oh, something definitely is, _my sweet bird_ ” Penelope says from the screen in the middle – a large TV screen plugged into the HDMI of the laptop placed in the middle of the table. Junie stands beside her, and gives you a little wave which you reciprocate. 

“I talked with someone from Apple” she says. 

At Reid’s raised eyebrow she adds, “-the phone company.” 

You lean against the glass walls, your attention shifting between Penelope’s words and the chaos occurring outside. 

“Normally they'd be able to track down the missing batch with GPS as soon as any of the phones got activated, but the New York office is shut down.” 

“Shut down?” you ask. “The storm isn’t even here yet.” 

“The whole city is being prepared as of now for emergency” she states, “Philly is not pretty right now. There are massive winds. I fear you must prepare for power shutdowns. But look at this.” 

The screen changes to show an Instagram picture of a box still unopened of the new phone, something nobody should have. The caption reads: S _uck it! Got my new iPhone a day early!_

“They worked fast” Rossi says, “posted 45 minutes ago. Is there a location posted?” 

“You mean, _tagged_?” Garcia corrects, “not really” 

“Wait, the shadow” Olivier chimes in, “See that curvature there over the box” he points a finger at the screen to where the shadow hits the surface of the box, “- that’s the brutal postmodern sweep. That is the amphitheater at Columbus Park and where they’re selling the phones from.” 

Everyone else looks at him in sudden confusion. 

“What?” you simply ask in surprise.

“I lived here” he says sheepishly, “And I’m an architecture buff.” 

“There’s two of them?” Morgan asks garnering a laugh out of you as he looks between Reid and Olivier. 

“Cool” Penelope lets out in excitement, “I will send you the location asap. Not that you need it of course” she shoots that last sentence at Olivier with a wink. He blushes in a second at the gesture, Morgan shaking his head. 

“Behave, girl” 

The entire phones in the room chime with the info from her and you exchange a look with Reid. 

“Reid-” Hotch begins, “since you already promised the detective-” 

“We’re on it” you shoot, ignoring the way Martins glares at you. 

\--- 

It’s not difficult to find the reseller – you just follow the crowd. People in heavy coats and jackets are crowded around an old man sitting at a bench at Columbus Park. The opposite of what you expected any of the killers to look like. You flash your badge at the people. 

“FBI, we need a few moments to talk with this gentleman over stolen cell phones” 

That works efficiently at dispersing quickly the crowd, chatter following them as they leave. 

“So, you’re the criminal mastermind” you throw at the man. He's older than you’d first predicted, probably at his 70s and he’s hunched, the boxes of new phones at his feet. He seems too weathered to have had the wits to commit the burglary. 

“What?” he asks, voice scratchy to your ears, “I found these phones” 

“Found?” Reid repeats, “And where did you find them?” 

“At this bakery on Beach street. The nice lady there gives me their old scones.” 

He’s homeless, you realize. 

“I was out back sleeping in the alley when I hear something being thrown in the dumpster. I go to check and there’s all these phones. I swear” 

“Did you see who left them?” Reid asks. 

“Just some white dudes. Very big. But I didn’t see their faces, they ran off as soon as they were done.” 

This is all too strange. They’d dispersed their phones right away and shot a man over them only to leave them at a dumpster? You sit down by the man. 

“Look, you’re definitely selling these at a very low price.” 

Reid’s eyebrows shoot up at your words of encouragement.

“The people of this neighborhood are rich. You can gain more” 

Who even gives a shit about stolen phones when there’s a snow storm coming? 

“You should find a shelter” you say, and when Reid’s not looking, his eyes too caught at counting down the boxes, you lean in place money (enough so he can get a room somewhere) over the man’s open palm, still holding a box. When Reid turns, it looks like you’re taking the box away from his hands. 

“I’ll call Detective Parker” Reid says when you stand up, approaching him. 

“Give him a few minutes” you say, “if not they’ll stuck him in prison for no reason” 

You expect refusal from him but he nods in understanding. 

\--- 

“The robbery was a distraction” Reid’s voice echoes in the empty lobby, as he speaks on the phone, updating the rest of the team, “It’s supposed to distract us from whatever they were here to steal.” 

“The advisory from the mayor’s office says that citizens need to return indoors immediately” Hotch says over the loudspeaker of his phone. “Hurry up back” 

You’d returned to the crime scene, wanting to find out the real reason they were here and what they stole exactly. 

“The other stores were fine” you say after Reid hangs up. “They must have gone upstairs or somewhere else” 

“The stairs are locked with a keycard. And it was still in his jacket” 

You shrug, “they could have placed it back” 

“But why do that?” 

You glance at the door, and you call Junie right away. To your surprise the voice that responds is Garcia’s. 

“Hey, birdie, what can I assist you with?” 

Reid throws you a look. 

“Where’s Junie?” you ask. “Everything okay back there?” 

She lets out a small laugh, “Yeah, she just pees a lot, that small baby is killing her bladder” 

You wince, “Oh, shit, I'm sorry. Can you find out what else is in the location of the crime scene? Other offices or residences? If there’s someone important living here or something?” 

You hear faint tapping over the keyboard in the background and she lists everything she finds: 

“Not a prime location for VIP residents but there’s a lawyer’s office. A few marketing offices, PR as well, and an architecture firm. But nothing relevant.” 

It must be from Olivier’s words but the only one in your head is the architecture firm – because you can easily get blueprints or something else if you were to hit banks, as Reus does. 

“Architecture firm” you say and Reid nods in approval as well. 

“You think they stole plans?” he asks. 

“Okay” Penelope says, “I will get in touch with them and ask them if they’re missing something” 

“Or” you propose, “you could inform them we’re outside their door” 

Reid’s quick, his door over the handle, waiting for the buzz that comes when someone opens the door of the apartment digitally locked. 

“Yes, will let them know! In the meantime Junie and I will do a deep dive on the files of this architecture firm. If we find something interesting I will hit you up. _Ciao!_ ” 

\--- 

Only one man is at the offices and he lets you in, albeit reluctantly even when you and Reid flash your badges at him. 

“I’m telling you we’re not missing anything. I don’t believe we could be robbed over anything” 

“Right,” you say, and Reid is already checking the entire space, his quick eyes grasping at everything. He notes a drawer with no door below the main table, empty and clean. 

“This is empty” he says and the man’s face scrunches up in confusion. 

“That’s impossible” he lets out, “we don’t even have enough space as is.” 

“They stole blueprints” you say, the confirmation of your suspicions finally true. “Can you check online what these numbers mean? Drawer 9-2-Alpha-Uniform-5 to 9-4-Gulf-Yankee-2-3?” 

The man nods, nearing his own desk. As soon as he sits though the lights go out at once. 

“What’s happening?” 

You look out the window – now even Penelope’s predictions had come true. 

“The storm” you say. _And you’d been so close too. How were you supposed to find out what had been stolen without the online archives?_

_“_ Don’t you separate plumbing and electrical plans?” Reid asks, his mind working fast at solving the puzzle. “If we have those, we can see what corresponds” he clarifies. 

You’re not sure you’d even know how to read plumbing or electrical specs but you’re certain he does. 

“Yes, we’d need all the plans” you repeat. 

\-- 

The entire city ends up as predicted in a lockdown. When you make it back to the department with Reid, Olivier informs you all that he can provide generators for everyone to work from the comfort of the house. A way to not clog the entire police department’s network as they provide emergency relief to the city. 

“Stuff is not clean so I’m sorry about this” Olivier says, as you all make it inside. You’re the last in, following behind Reid. The building is a classic 4-stories high Brownstone residence, located in Brooklyn. Olivier had mentioned once in passing that the roof was nice – having a view of the Queensborough Bridge and Manhattan. You’d never expected it to be this big. 

“The basement is what I used as an office when we worked undercover a few years back,” he says, “so the generators there are still working” 

Rossi and JJ are the first to note the large hearth in the living room, next to the entrance. 

“The first floor looks upon the garden, and there’s a kitchen, another living room and a bedroom there. While the second floor, which is this one, has another working room, 2 bedrooms and a-” 

“Library!” Reid lets out in excitement. It gets a smile out of everyone from the BAU. 

“Yes, this place was passed over by a friend of a friend of the organization. They’re quite charitable, and very intellectual, so of course the books remained” 

Reid’s entire focus is gone as he looks at the spines of the books, trying to understand who this person who’d left behind such a treasure – to him – could be. 

“We found Reid’s room” Rossi jokes and Derek laughs. 

“Hey, as long as we don't share I’m fine even with the basement” 

“I’ll take the other bedroom here then,” Rossi says. 

Olivier laughs at that but it dies when he sees Martins' sneer, “of course the top floor we leave to the ladies. There’s three bedrooms there and a large bathroom.” 

“Good,” Prentiss lets out, “I wasn’t looking forward to being crammed in either” 

“On the third floor there’s enough rooms for the rest, three tiny bedrooms though. Sorry guys” he says, directed to Martins and Morgan. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent trying to make the large living room into a makeshift conference room as Rossi, you and JJ help with boards and Morgan and Prentiss fix the generators, with Olivier’s directions. Reid is off to the side, finding solace next to the libraries as he plants himself on the ground, papers spread around, looking at the blueprints you’d gotten. It's like he takes power from the presence of books, you think, like Superman does with the sun. When you say it to the group, JJ and Rossi laugh fondly, while Martins snickers. 

“What, is he like – a genius or something?” Martins asks.

“You don’t know, do you?” you joke. For a moment, being around your former team, working so closely with them, you forget Martins, and even Interpol and the CIA. 

Before Martins can respond though, the loud shutting of the entrance door signals Hotch is back. The shoulders of his large black coat are dusted with snow, and so is his dark hair. His nose and cheeks are flushed red from the cold and his gloved hands come to tug at the scarf first, taking it off, once he nears the table. _He looks entirely too handsome._ You bite your lip, glancing down at the notes, willing your attention back to the work at hand – gluing these to the board. 

“I was able to reach Garcia” he says, and he sheds off his coat too, the temperature inside too warm for the many layers he dons. “I’m afraid that might be the last time we can reach her. She says the entire city is in lockdown. They expect the storm to hit this night so I don’t know what we’ll wake up to tomorrow. We must be prepared” 

Rossi nods but JJ looks already worried. “It’s good I talked to Henry and Will before this all happened” she says and Hotch nods. 

“Were you able to reach Jack and Jessica?” you ask just as quickly, completely forgetting where you stand – among Rossi, JJ and Martins. To your knowledge JJ doesn’t know about you and Hotch. 

He takes in your outfit as you’d stopped wearing the outer layers as well, now remaining only in his brown quarter-zip and your black jeans. The shirt is much too big on you, but you’d tucked in what you could inside the waistband of your pants in a French tuck, sleeves rolled to your elbows. The color and the style are not too different to what you usually wear, not too questionable to anyone. Apart from Rossi, you think, who'd done a quick scan of your outfit once you'd taken off your jacket, the shirt familiar to him. He didn't say anything though.

“Yes” Hotch says, his tone remaining serious, but not giving up any other information. To an outsider like Martins, it looks like you’re asking out of politeness more than anything else. 

“These candles won’t hold us for long” Rossi says, cutting into the awkwardness befalling the room. “I sure hope Derek knows how to get the generators going.” 

“Of course, he does” JJ says with a smile, “he can fix anything” 

As she’d planned it the room is washed at once with light from up head, the riotous cheers from downstairs making the rest of you laugh. 

“Hallelujah” Rossi says with a wide grin, “now, who’s making dinner?” 

\--- 

Martins is uncomfortable from the easy familiarity between the rest of you. You can tell, as you eat the soup around the large dining table in the kitchen, his mannerism too guarded and self-aware. Prentiss and JJ had been in charge with stocking the house with bare necessities and food, while Hotch and Rossi, accompanied by Morgan had gotten the rest – candles, a dozen flashlights, and other stuff from NYPD. Martins had expected to find you restless from being back with the former unit, or to be angry or in clear discomfort. But you’re all discussing over the case even while eating, taking quick affectionate jabs at one another – work intertwining with the friendship that surrounds you all. Even Olivier forgets Martins' new leadership status that had initially put both you and him in doubt. However, as per Hotch’s orders (Martins too even though they don’t hold the same impact) everyone doesn’t stay up too long. He’d chucked it to not wasting the generator’s fuel needlessly, not without knowing what waking up after a snowstorm would bring. 

\- 

The lights are off – you can almost sense it before you open your eyes. Everything is too quiet, not even the old gas heaters cracking and whirring. After 11 the lights had come on briefly and everyone had turned on every single heater in the house to fight the cold trying to seep in. You push yourself off the bed, cold air already hitting your neck - wet from sweat pooled from your sleep. You’d gone overboard with leaving the gas heater on before falling asleep but out, today with Reid, the low temperatures had been cruel. Sometime after midnight only did your body stop shaking. You reach blindly in the dark for the t-shirt you’d thrown off before climbing into bed. And when your eyes adjust to the dark you take off the current top, replacing it with the dry one. The cool material of the shirt is a sharp contrast to your heated skin but it provides a much needed cool down. Pushing the covers off you reach for your phone to look at the time – 4.00am – and look for the slippers you’d discovered in the room. You can’t find them or your shoes in the dark. Your throat is parched, and even through the dark the only thing you want to do is find some water. Walking down the old wooden stairs trying not to push your weight over them to avoid making noise appears more difficult than predicted. They crack every 5 steps, and the coldness of the floor to your bare feet makes you walk faster. Once down, you see the faint light coming from the living room and the door behind closed. Someone’s awake, and from the smell of burning wood, they’ve lit up the fireplace as well. 

You head to the kitchen first and you almost jump out your skin at the dark figure standing there. They turn and you let out a small gasp. 

“ _Jesus fuck_ -“ 

Hotch stands innocently before you, steam rising up from the mug in his hands, dressed in pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt. His surprise is as evident as yours. 

“You scared me” you breathe out, and a tiny smile appears on his face. 

“Sorry” he says, voice groggy from sleep. 

“How did you make that?” you ask, since the lights are off. 

“Gas stove” he reminds you and you nod. 

“Want me to make you a tea as well?” 

You shake your head, making your way to the cupboards. When you find a clean glass, you fill it at the sink with water to the brim. 

“No, thanks” you let out before downing the whole thing. 

He watches in silence as you refill it. 

“You okay?” 

When your glass is empty again you turn to him. 

“I slept with the heater on, and a million blankets” 

His smile grows wider. 

“So, you weren’t unlucky to wake up freezing?” 

There’s an itch to say sorry – not when you’d made the request to all move to this old house only so everyone could be together and not separated by the storm. Foregoing the nice hotel that had above than average luxuries, especially with the snowstorm. 

“Sorry” you mumble but he waves it off. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

You don’t want to lie to him, especially since he seems to be glad of that – just so you can both have this moment after today’s rush of a day. 

“Did you light up the fireplace?” you ask instead. 

He nods, “I was working since I couldn’t go back to sleep” 

_That makes sense._

You follow him wordlessly to the living room and he pushes the door open, a small noise let out from the rusty hinges holding it together. The living room you’d seen at dinner – empty, apart from the dusty leather furniture around and the heavy mahogany shelves filled with thick books, and almost ghost-like in the afternoon – now seems cozy. The cleaning that Olivier had promised was done. The papers lying across the sofa and on the table together with Hotch’s pullover thrown over a pillow case, as well as the lighting from the fire makes it seem homey. He shuts the door behind you with a small thud. Realization hits you quick – that you’re both alone together for the first time. He leans in, closing the distance that had stretched for miles from being apart in the field. It is different – you'd been apart before; it was a given from his job and yours. But being so close to him and yet not being able to touch was almost cruel. But _you couldn’t_. Not when the entire BAU and your team was sleeping soundlessly upstairs, and could be easily woken up from any noise. Even being here alone with him at this hour could open up a whole can of worms that you wouldn’t know how to address with Olivier or Martins. And yet, you linger before him, not wanting to be the first to break the familiar spell that blankets you both when around one another. 

His eyes are lit aflame. His midnight hair is tousled. His face is at a soft impasse, lips pulled in a gentle smile, and his head is titled down to you. Under the warm light of the fire in the fireplace and with the sounds of the crackling wood and the snow outside settling softly over the ground, you want to risk it all. 

“It’s snowing outside” he says, a weak effort to distract you. He doesn’t move away either, not wanting to part. 

He smells distinctly like firewood, and his voice is _too much_ – deep and husky and attractive. 

“Mhmm” you hum to yourself, and narrow the distance, nothing else in your head but him. 

With his hand still over the door handle, and the other holding steady the cup of tea, you stand in your tippy toes, and wrap your arms around his neck, meeting his lips. You’d intended for the kiss to be a small peck, something quick and lightweight. But once your lips meet his you can’t move away anymore. You press yourself closer to his warm body, deepening the kiss. Even his free hand latches around your waist at once, crushing you to him until the only things separating your bodies are the layers of clothes. He lets out a hum of annoyance and you smile against his mouth, knowing what it’s about. 

“This fucking tea-” he mumbles, before he’s kissing you again, with a bigger urgency than before. His hand at your back slides up your spine leaving at wake a path of goosebumps of pleasure. He feels so good, _everything_ does. His hand involuntarily pulls up the material of your shirt with his movements at your back, and once his tongue finds yours everything turns sloppy and passionate. 

You’re quickly crossing dangerous territory, and not only because there’s hot liquid tipping at the mug in his hand, but because the hunger in you and in him is not quenched – it just keeps growing. Especially, when his warm hand finds the naked skin at your back, exposed from the shirt that rode up. 

“Hotch-” you breathe out against his lips once resurfacing for air, diving back to kissing him immediately after. His fingers are harsh against your side, lighting up your nerve endings at every grip. They move smoothly down your hip, and then they droop low – 

You push away at once, both breathless, and you stare at him bewildered. 

_Not here, not when everyone can interrupt._

He nods in silent agreement. His lips are stained deep red, and his eyes are dilated dark. There’s a small smile resting on his face, dimples at the sides and you almost want to kiss him again. 

“You’re dangerous” you say stupidly and he lets out a laugh. 

He plops down at the sofa, that same spot he must have been for some time, in between the papers laid out in front of him. You don’t dare sit nearby, not until you’ve cooled down so you head to the windows. It’s dark and not much can be seen outside apart from the white speckles of snow that keep pouring down. The storm is here and what Penelope had said about loss of contact is finally true. 

“What are you reading?” you ask, turning your back to the window, leaning down over the sill. The coldness of the glass against your back helps combat Hotch’s lingering effect on you. Asking about the case helps too. 

“These blueprints you and Reid found” he says. “I know Reid must have been close but I had to send him to sleep or he would have been out like a light today” 

You nod, “You think it’s something about Reus” 

“I think you were right to suspect” he says, turning to meet your eyes, “Your instincts were correct” 

You press your back firmly against the cold glass – praise from him getting you all riled up again. 

“Reid was reviewing the accounting files” he says, “He noticed that several of the stolen blueprints lacked the accompanying plumbing schematics. These are what the architecture firm bid on but didn’t get. I found one in particular – a classified government job, an addition to an existing government building administered by the GSA” 

“What’s the GSA?” you ask. 

“Government’s General Services Administration.” 

“What does that mean?” you ask once more, taking a seat at the sofa next to him. He shows you a document which you pick up. 

“The architects approved to bid on the addition had access any of the building’s existing plans. It might be what the thieves were after” 

“Which building is it?” He pushes a book towards you, something Reid had probably discovered from the library upstairs. 

“It’s EROC – East Rutherford Operations Center. It’s a cash depository and processing center for the New York branch of -” 

You glance down at the book, the photo of it clear as day – 

“The Federal Reserve.” 

It’s _Reus._ It has to be him with something at this magnitude. 

“The largest cash vault in the world” 

“So, he took a trip around Europe to what – gain experience?” you ask now, thinking back to all those trial runs. 

Hotch furrows his eyebrows, “He might be using the storm as cover to strike. Security is at depleted levels.” 

He was waiting for a storm – that’s why his sudden reappearance in the U.S. That meant that he’d kept in touch with someone in New York, and had known the precise moment when to fly back in. A huge risk to undertake but still something he’d managed to predict and use to his advantage. 

“You think he’s now using weather strikes to camouflage his hits?” 

“Could be,” he says, “we might need to make an analysis of all the hits he made to see if it’s a pattern.” 

“Did you contact Detective Parker?” you ask, leaving the documents and the book over the table. He shakes his head in reply. 

“I lost cell phone service at 3.00 am. The landline here is down as well. We don’t have a way to contact the police” 

For a split second you’re comforted that you’d predicted this, and that you can still reach each other, and not having to split up between the police department and field work. Not yet at least. 

“We’ll have to regroup fast tomorrow and stop this ourselves, after we visit the police department. We know what Reus and his team are capable of now.” 

You nod, head already full with the millions of plans you’d have to conjure up tomorrow for catching Reus and working under this weather. 

“For now,” he says then, cutting the silence, “there’s nothing we can do but wait until it’s daylight” 

With that he clears off the papers from the sofa, placing them neatly over the table. He’d stayed up figuring this out, letting the rest of you rest and sleep comfortably. Only so everyone can be in top shape once the sun rises. For a second you’re nostalgic because this is what had made you eventually fall for him – his monumental resolve and dedication, and his silent compassion towards the team. 

“Sleep is good too” you say with a smile and he leaves the empty cup over the table. 

“Now, tell me why you can’t sleep” you reach out, moving your hand over his knee to get his attention. 

He watches you in silence, a slight rise of eyebrow questioning your hand placement. 

“I’m serious” you say, but your cheeks and neck heat up, “how can I help?” 

You know he’s fighting a battle with himself, maybe over saying something teasing at you or not, but he seems to lose. 

“You being here is enough” he says then, and that’s enough for you too. You inch closer, arms stretching to wrap around him once more. He tugs you in until you're perfectly snug against his chest. His hand falls at your waist, steady over you, and when you rise up to plant an innocent kiss at his cheek he laughs.

“What?” you ask, gazing up at him. He looks at you with adoration – pure and soft, eyes crinkling in light. His free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. 

“Nothing” he says softly, “I love you” 

Your heart swells up at his words. You don’t mind if he doesn’t have a plan for you in his life yet – because you do for him, and you’re too willing to sacrifice yourself over it. Even if it does end up in heartbreak, at least you’ll have these sweet moments. Even though now they taste more bittersweet. You choke up and look down, pressing your cheek against his chest. Against the fast beating of his heart felt against your cheek you say it back in the same rhythm. “I love you too”. You stand like that for a good chunk of time, until you feel his breathing slow down, sleep getting to him easily. You almost doze off too but you remember the context and retreat, focusing instead at the documents he’s left over the table. 

At some point sleep must get to you too, because you’re stirred gently awake by Rossi. 

“You have to go to your room _now_ ” he says, his voice urgent but eyes soft. 

“What? Why?” you mumble incoherently. The fire flickers, almost out. Sunrays pour in through the open windows, casting the whole room in white.

He leans away and gestures aggressively with both hands as if to say _why do you think?_

Hotch’s hand around your waist is an efficient answer for you. You part away from him at once, embarrassment clouding you fast. Sometime at night too, you had found each other, and you'd gone back resting over his chest, his hand tight around you. Hotch wakes up too, sensing the loss of contact even in his sleep. 

“This is the last time I do this” Rossi says, and Hotch clears his throat. You’re ashamed because Rossi's implied accusations make it sound like you’d had sex in the living room too. He glares at you both, eyes darting back and forth, index finger up like a parent scolding you after catching you sneaking around with your boyfriend. Hotch senses it too and he speaks out, wanting to clear the air.

“Dave, _we didn’t_ -” 

Rossi holds up a hand, waving it around dramatically, “ _I don’t_ _even want to know_.” 

You stand up at once, the quick movement making you dizzy for a split second. 

“To _your_ room, I said” he snaps at you and you don’t even hesitate. You close the door behind; Rossi’s whisper-shouts still audible to your ears – 

“What are you, _horny teenagers?!_ –” 

– You make your way up the stairs, ascending them by two, heart beating loudly in your chest, and yet you stifle a laugh from the ridiculousness of it all. 

\--- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always lemme know what y'all think!! (if u find sth more interesting than others, or what you'd like to read next!)  
> (also fyi guys i changed the rating to M after last chapter but idk what might happen in the next ones  
> I personally had fun writing this chapter and adapting the episode to fit CM, and well, I'm enjoying writing the lil interactions with the team a bit too much ! lol  
> thnx as always ✌😌
> 
> *edit: not me forgetting the word for fireplace and editing this again lol


	22. The Great Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after - so you all split up to stop the robbery at EROC before it happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I EDITED MORE (bcs my writing was garbage before lmao! pls sb read this again)
> 
> me writing a long ass chapter all day as procrastination because I have to study for an exam instead? more likely than you think !  
> more parent-Rossi, more BAU banter! more forbidden messy make outs! more action!  
> please enjoy!!
> 
> fyi: expeditionist: One who enjoys the thrill and/or excitement of having sex in random nontraditional areas usually public/semi-public places where the thrill of being caught excites them  
> *title from the song by Patrick Watson  
> (as always: i do not own this case story, or these characters apart from the wild shit that happens in between them all lol)  
> if you haven't watched elementary ever - take this as your encouragement to! (or not i cant tell u what to do ! lmao)

You hurry up the stairs and luckily for you – everyone is still asleep, all bedroom doors still closed. When you make it to your floor though, you hear water running in the bathroom. Your own bedroom door is left ajar, so whoever is in the bathroom had definitely noted you missing. Once inside, you shut the door quietly, reaching immediately for the phone over your bedside table. It’s already 7am and given everything, you’re happy Rossi had been the one to find you instead of someone else. Though you don’t know how you’ll be able to look him in the eyes after he’d caught you. 30 minutes later, after washing up, getting ready, and dressed (your own shirt, this time), there’s a knock on your door. Then, Emily pops her head in. 

“Morning,” you can’t help but notice the way her eyes roam around the room before landing on you. It was definitely her, just from that simple act – she’d seen you missing from the bedroom. _What – did_ _she expect_ _to find_ _someone_ _here,now?_

“I can smell the bacon and eggs all the way from up here” she says with a smile, “should we go downstairs?” 

“Morning! Yes definitely, and JJ?” you ask, following her out on the hall. 

“She’s trying to call Will and Henry” she says, “but she’ll be down in 5 most probably” 

She’s right – the entire house smell like eggs and bacon, and it works at waking up everyone too. The kitchen is already full – everyone taking a seat at the table where plates with omelets and fried bacon sit upon. 

“A very American breakfast” Olivier says amused once he sees you. He’d told you once in passing that what he missed the most while traveling Europe was the very greasy, heavy food. You let out a laugh. 

“Morning, everyone” Emily shouts out above the ruckus of chatter and dishes clattering. Hotch sits at the head of the table, on one side, Reid on his left, and Morgan on his right, an empty but taken seat in-between that you think might be Rossi’s. Martins is on the opposite side of the table, with Olivier at his right. Emily takes the free spot next to Morgan. 

“Who do we give thanks to?” she asks looking at Rossi standing by the stove. 

“Oh,” he says, turning around, “This was all Hotch. I am simply the coffee maker” 

He throws you a look over his shoulder when you near the table, an - _I dare you to sit next to Hotch_ , and you freeze, opting for taking the coffee first. 

He hands you one, and you can’t possibly meet his eyes after this morning at the living room. 

“Wow, smells incredible!” JJ says walking in. “I’m starving.” 

“Come on, we were waiting for you” Morgan says with a smile. Once she sits next to Reid, he asks “Were you able to call home?” 

“No” she says, “I don’t have cell phone service” 

“No Garcia today either” Morgan states, “we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way” 

You finally take a seat next to Martins, and Rossi does too – next to Hotch. 

“How do we get in touch with NYPD then?” Olivier asks through a mouthful. 

“Someone has to coordinate from there” Martins answers. “We’ll need to split up” 

Hotch drops the knife and fork quietly over his plate, and he leans his elbows over the table. He recaps everything he’d told you last night – about Reus’ plans to hit the NY branch of the Federal Reserve. 

“There is the matter of finding the team member that is hospitalized too” Morgan says once he stops talking. 

“The woman who shot the night guard” JJ clarifies. 

“I think Detective Parker is going to have his hands full today with the emergency response.” Martins rebuts. 

“Then, Morgan and JJ, you can make the rounds at the hospitals on every suspicious person who came in last night” Hotch orders. 

“We’ll stay at the police department” Martins says about himself and Olivier. “If Reus is hitting the bank today-“ 

“If he hasn’t done it already” you correct. Martins shoots you a look. 

“ _E_ _ven if_ he has, we’ll coordinate backup.” 

“Granted the police would even be willing to spare the manpower necessary to stop it” You say again and Martins narrows his eyes at you. 

“You want us to storm the building? Is that it? What if there’s 50 commandos there shooting up the place? What then?” 

“We can’t storm the building,” Hotch says, his authoritative voice calmly interrupting the heated argument that is about to ensue. 

“Someone needs to head to EROC” you say, and Hotch nods meeting your eyes. It’s enough to relax you. 

“We have no way to communicate though. The radios we received are out of bounds.” Martins reminds you, “How would we know what you find out?” 

“How do we even get that far? EROC is not within walking distance” Morgan adds, “we can’t haul a cab, or use our cars” 

“You _definitely_ cannot walk there.” Rossi says, “It’s in East Rutherford, New Jersey.” 

Reid leans back against his chair, already working out the kinks in the plan. 

“The WSV” he says aloud. Everyone just stares at him, waiting for the explanation that’s about to come. “The Winter Service Vehicles – they’re the only vehicles able to be on the streets right now.” 

“So, we hitchhike?” you ask and he shrugs. 

“It could work” 

“Then, we try it” Hotch cuts in, “Reid, Prentiss, head to EROC” 

“I’ll come with” you interrupt, “if it got hit, I will hitch a ride back to the department to let you know what we find” 

Martins nods, still dubious over your plan, “what are the chances you’ll find snow removal vehicles?” 

“They operate in checkpoints” Reid answers for you, “I have the map from FEMA and we know where each of them is.” He then turns to you, “We can drop you off to the next one” 

“Good idea” you let out, granting him a tiny smile, but he refuses to meet your eyes. _Very unlike for him_. 

“Even if Reus already hit EROC, the city is in lockdown” Prentiss reminds you all, “He can’t escape yet, so we need to coordinate with the police checkpoints” 

“Okay” Hotch repeats, “Rossi and I will be at the police department as well” 

“Brilliant” Rossi says at his side, sarcasm oozing out with his words “I’m definitely looking forward to walking in the snow for 20 minutes.” 

Martins, Olivier, Morgan and JJ are the first to head out. Prentiss is upstairs putting on more layers after she went out first to see how cold it is. Reid is somewhere in the house, packing the papers needed for the visit to EROC. You hear Rossi and Hotch talking in hushed voices behind the closed door of the latter’s bedroom. It’s a good time as any, you think, so you decide to rehash this morning’s misunderstanding. 

“I’m all for _cheeky_ fun”, you hear Rossi, “but this is not-“ 

With your cheeks already flushed from whatever he’s insinuating, you knock twice in the door before pushing inside. Rossi is on one side of the room, and Hotch on the other, his coat already on, looking like a trapped animal. Rossi had probably caught him, unwillingly. 

“ _Saya_ _-_ “ Rossi says your name like a disappointed parent. 

“I’m not here for him” you say quickly, before the rush of confidence dissipates, “I’m here for you” 

Rossi crosses his arms over his front. 

“What is this about?” 

You close the door behind and mimic his stance unconsciously. 

“Look, I don’t have time for what I really want to say, but-“ 

Hotch on the other side looks amused from the situation. 

“I wanted to clarify that we did not – we didn’t... ha-have-“ 

And just like that, the confidence is gone, because you don’t know how to say it. You’re an adult and you can’t say the word _sex_ in front of Rossi because his expressions look way too familiar. The stiff posture, the disappointed look, his lips pulled in a tight line – ready to yell at you – _maybe?_ You’re not sure, but you feel like a teen as he’d first said. 

“I’m not stupid” you say instead, because you definitely cannot finish the little speech you’d planned, “Last night is on me. I don’t want to jeopardize the work we are doing. Martins and Olivier aren’t going to know.” 

Rossi looks pensive, as if considering it first. 

“Aaron explained _everything_ already” he says after a long awkward time, hand motioning towards Hotch. 

“Okay” you say, a hand wiping your forehead, in a nervous tick. So, this was meaningless then, and it served to make you feel more embarrassed than anything. 

“I _better_ not catch you again” Rossi repeats in a reprimand and you roll your eyes. 

“Okay, _dad_.” 

He glares at you in reply. 

“I’ll tell him to climb discretely up my window next time.” You say, casting a quick glance at Hotch who shakes his head immediately at your words – _not helping your case_. And because none of them had interrupted to say everything had been cleared out, you push your luck – taking on the role Rossi had already cast you in – that of rebellious teenager: 

“ _Better a bedroom than a living room_ , don’t you agree?” 

Before he has time to reply – meaning _yell_ at you again – you bolt quickly out the door, heart pounding in your chest. Emily and Spencer wait for you in the hall talking amongst one another. 

“What was that about?” Emily asks upon seeing the state of you. 

“Oh, nothing. Rossi was just preoccupied over us being warm before going outside” you lie. 

She nods, “Right, classic _papa Rossi._ Should we go?” 

\-- 

Reid’s assumptions were correct. It doesn’t take too long walking in the snow until you find a WSV on standby waiting for further instructions. The woman driver agrees to drive you to your destination – all too excited over stopping a possible robbery. When you make it to the building you all jump out, Reid stopping in front of the building. 

“I’ll see if there are any tire tracks and join you later” he says, addressing Prentiss and not you. “Before the storm already covers them all” 

Suspicions have grown the entire drive here. He even flushed red when Prentiss asked you if you’d slept well. You hadn’t thought anything of it when Rossi found you this morning. But he and Reid were sharing the same floor and Hotch had sent him to bed early before he’d found out what building was the target. Maybe he’d woken up before anyone else and had come back to the living room with the intention to finish his job. 

“Ok, spit it out, what’s wrong with you?” Prentiss asks all of the sudden. 

“Excuse-me?” 

“You’re distracted” she says, “you’ve been since breakfast. Usually when someone mentions Reus you get excited like a puppy” 

“I don’t-“ 

“You do” she says flatly, narrowing her eyes at you, “you’re always razor-sharp, not giving a shit about anyone but him.” 

You breathe out. _Maybe_ you’ve been distracted. And _maybe_ you should tell her. She’s your best friend and _well_ , even if she didn’t know before, telling Penelope had been a risk. For sure she’d already told everyone already. 

“I’m dating Hotch” 

Her facial expressions remain the same, only her hand moves in a quick motion urging you to continue with an _And_ _?_

You scoff, “You knew?” 

_“_ Yes” Emily deadpans, “Sorry, were you trying to keep it a secret?” 

“Does JJ know?” 

She shrugs in a _maybe._

“Come on, man” 

_Was there anyone_ _left_ _in the BAU who did not know?_

She smiles, “Sorry, it was extremely easy to put two and two together” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well,” she starts as you both go through the building’s outer doors, “Hotch broke up with Beth _practically_ the same day you left for the task force. And the man is completely different when he’s getting laid” 

_Jesus._

_“_ Emily” but you know it to be true, because _well_ – he had loosened up a bit while dating you. But you wanted to be more poetic, more romantic and say it was because he’s in _love_ . But honestly, sometimes it’s as simple as she says. _Great, so the entire team knows you’re screwing their boss._

“Sorry, honey.” she says sweetly, “So, what’s the issue then?” 

“Rossi caught us in the living room this morning” 

Her lips form a small “o” in surprise, and you shake your head fast. 

“Not – not like that. We were fully clothed, and –and we weren’t doing anything.” 

Her eyebrows remain raised though. 

“We were just working, and we happened to fall asleep on the sofa” you ramble, “Nothing else!” 

She lets out a laugh, “Jeez okay. _Thank God_ , you weren’t doing anything” she says, looking at you again, before giving her attention to the road ahead. You’re both nearing the building. 

“Because those couches were very soft. And I’d like to sit there again in the future.” 

“ _Emily-_ ” at this point she’s just making fun of you. 

“Look, I’m not going to be the one to tell you not to smooch your _lover_ when in the job. I’d be a hypocrite” You just stare at her in confusion. _Is she an-_

“I know _the thrill of being caught_ can be exciting.” 

_Expeditionist_ _?_

You’re largely going off topic, but you can’t stop the train wreck that this discussion has turned into. Simply because her grin is wide and magnetic – the same way it’d been when she told you about her plans over _sin to win weekend_. 

“I’m _not_ into that.” you say quickly, “Although, Rossi definitely though t that’s what we were doing. And I’m probably _grounded with no phone privileges_ for over two months or something.” 

She laughs at your last sentence. “I still don’t get the problem. Rossi is Hotch’s _bestie_. He’ll forget it after some time.” 

“I think Spencer was the one to find us, actually. He won’t look me in the eyes. I’m so mortified” 

“Ah! That’s what that was about!” she lets out, then switches when she sees how miserable you are. 

She pats lightly your back in sympathy, “Yes, you’ve definitely scarred our boy, but you should tell him. I’m sure he’ll understand that sometimes people sleep together _before_ marriage.” 

You roll your eyes at her little jab at Reid. 

“He’s not that innocent, _you know_ ” 

“Shush,” she says, and when you’re finally in the lobby of the building she says in a low voice, “I don’t want to believe he’s anything but pure.” 

\-- 

“I don’t understand why the FBI is here” The bald man, in charge as a director for EROC says, once he lets you in the building. A guard walks behind him, very close by. “And we can’t reach anybody on the radio to confirm your arrival” 

“Yes,” Prentiss says at your left, “because they’re dealing with the storm of the century.” 

“Be that as it may” the man continues, “there’s no way we’re letting you past the control room. Nobody gets past the control room”, he leads you towards a wide room resembling a computer laboratory. 

“This entire facility is automated, agents. Most days, nobody’s allowed on the cash floor. Automated vehicles – our AGVs – they unload pallets of bills from the armored trucks that bring in the deposits. Then they take them into the vaults for processing and storage. It’s all commanded remotely from rooms like these” 

He sits down in one of the desks, and you all halt. He inputs a code and the screen switches to show a list of recent works. 

“There’s no way and no chance you could get into our vault directly.” 

He pauses, and he stops typing – his mouse pointed to one of the last jobs. 

“Is there something wrong?” Reid asks, noting his body language. 

“No.” the man answers, “It’s all there and accounted for. I just didn’t realize they were doing a sort today.” 

Prentiss and you share a look. The man turns to his guard. 

“Steve, did you hear about this? Machines ran about 980” 

The man at his left shakes his head, confused as well. Prentiss is the first to speak. 

“An unscheduled, unsupervised sort of nearly a billion dollars run on auxiliary power?” 

The director stares at her, “Okay, okay, I know it’s weird. But... nothing’s missing. All the bills that ran through the machines are accounted for. The system’s tamperproof.” 

Reid leans in close, disregarding the man’s rules to not see the screen of his computer. He reads everything quickly, then leans back. 

“Do you destroy currency at this facility?” 

The director cocks an eyebrow in surprise, “Yes, if a bill gets too worn out it gets sifted out and shredded.” 

“Can we see where?” 

He hesitates, looking in between you all and his guard. 

“The money’s already been shredded, no?” Prentiss asks. 

“We are not here to steal your confetti” you joke, “we just want to make sure everything is accounted for.” 

He finally agrees – leading you to the shredding facilities. There’s material neatly packed in bales over the rolling surfaces, of currency already being destroyed. 

“Our processing machines read 70,000 bills an hour, and these bills are from this morning’s shred. Just under 33 million dollars. That’s about average for four hours. It’s all here.” 

Reid grabs a piece of the material, Prentiss at his side. With a thumb and index finger he places a small piece in between his teeth then spits it out. 

“This isn’t U.S currency” he says. 

“This is supposed to be cotton” Prentiss adds, rolling a piece between her fingers “this is regular paper. It’s fake.” 

“That’s not possible-” the man says, and he checks for himself – realization quickly dawning on him, “ _oh my god_ ” 

“It’s hard to say how they got in” you say to Prentiss and Reid, “not without access to the blueprints they stole. They got into the control room, looped the security footage and gave themselves run of the place. They switched out the bales that were meant to be shredded with fake currency.” 

“They could have taken as much as they wanted” Prentiss says. 

“Not without risk of detection and inviting a massive manhunt. If these bales had gone to the landfill as planned, no one would even know about the crime here.” 

“So, we’re far past preventing a robbery” Prentiss says, “We need to find Reus before he disappears with 33 million dollars.” 

“I did find outside the point of ingress and egress into the property” Reid says, “and tire tracks” 

A few minutes later, under the heavy snow that keeps pouring down, Reid shows Prentiss and you the tire tracks he’d found out – from the back of the building. 

“This happened recently” you state, and he nods. 

“There’s two inches of snow falling every hour. Those tracks would be impossible to see, unless they were here within the last 90 minutes or so.” Reid says. 

“There’s cigarette butts here” Prentiss points to the ground, next to the small shed, “this utility shed is the most remote point of access to EROC. Given the storm, they’ve probably been working with a skeleton crew.” 

But they’d left with a vehicle in the middle of a storm, and everything would be too suspicious unless – 

“It’s an ambulance” Reid states. His voice is raspy, slowly becoming affected from the freezing cold, “These tire tracks” he points ahead into the white markings that leave the fences – “they’re varying axle bases. The front wheels are a bit closer together and it’s a very rare configuration. It's common for American-made ambulances of the late ‘90s. And, well, U-Haul- style box trucks.” 

Prentiss shows her face from above the thick scarf around her face to smile at him, “Thank God, you’re here.” Then she turns to stare at you, “if the guard hadn’t been murdered, Reus would have gotten away with it too.” 

“But, it’s not too late to catch him” you say. “I have to go inform the team” 

\--- 

You storm into the police department, your feet taking you fast ahead, not only because of the update you have to share right away, but also because of the cold that has you shaking in your skin. 

Olivier shoots up from a desk station, noting you right away, “Kuroki! Do you have news?” 

“EROC’s already been hit” you say aloud, teeth chattering from the cold. 

“ _Merde_ _”_ Olivier mutters through his teeth. 

“Where are the others?” 

“Interrogation room” he says, standing up right away, following your same urgency, “Morgan and JJ found the woman. You okay? You look blue – like you’re freezing.” 

“Yes, I’m fine. The car that drove me was called back, so the driver left me further than we agreed on, so I had to run here.” 

“You _ran_ here?” he asks, his voice going up a few octaves. 

You ignore his question, hurrying instead to the interrogation rooms. You push the door open – Rossi, JJ, Morgan all turn simultaneously to you – the other side of the glass has Martins at the table, with a woman, late 20s, brunette and beautiful opposite him. 

“EROC’s already been robbed” 

Before your words sink in though you turn to the glass, “Did you find her?” 

“Yes,” JJ says, “Alysa Darvin, stabbed in the abdomen” 

“One of her friends stabbed her to disguise the bullet wound” Morgan says. “I need to inform Hotch-” 

Martins’ loud voice from the other side grabs everyone’s attention - 

“Today’s really your lucky day, Ms. Darvin. This test usually doesn’t take any time at all but we have no power. We can’t run the test. You have a window of opportunity here – you confess you killed Frank Dempster, and that you and your little team stole the new iPhones. I’ll get a D.A in here and cut you a deal-” 

The woman interrupts him: “You know what, why don’t you shove-” 

Hotch strides into the room, cutting off her sentence at the most opportune moment. 

“Let’s switch gears” he says, voice loud and confident, “Alysa Darvin – the name you used at the hospital – it’s an alias.” 

You turn to the team – _He managed to get in touch with Garcia?_

“Your real name is Elle Bastin” Hotch says, standing before her, imposing and threatening, “You were born in Marseilles, with dual citizenship with arrests for larceny in Bordeaux and Paris” 

The woman’s face falls at his words, retreating back against her chair, Hotch’s words and posture, already working. 

“Your husband, Leo Artis, was in both jobs. Is that why you won’t talk to us? Because you’re married to a man who’s decided to go ahead with the robbery after you got shot? Or was that Reus’ call?” 

You hold your breath – Reus had gotten rid of her too, as he always did when someone messed up his original plan. You wrap your arms around yourself, concentrating on the view before you rather than on the cold that won’t go away. 

“We want Jonathan Reus” Hotch reinstates and the woman looks up to him surprised. That’s enough confirmation that Reus is indeed the leader. 

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen - you don’t tell us what he’s up to or where we can find him – you’re going to get a murder charge alone” 

The woman looks down at her cuffed wrists placed over the table, but there’s no discomfort on her face. 

“You’re never going to find _Reus”_ she says, her voice veiled in a thick French accent. 

Martins opens his mouth to speak but Morgan bursts through the room - 

“Hotch,” he says, already looking at the man, “EROC’s already been hit” 

Hotch follows Morgan, giving a simple nod to Martins to continue the interrogation before heading out. He’s quick to enter your room. 

“What did you find?” he says, eyes landing on you immediately. His face is taut in a stern expression, eyebrows furrowed. 

“They’re travelling in an ambulance and have 33 million dollars on them” you do a recap of the rest quickly, and Olivier returns into the room. 

“I just talked to Junie” he says, “Garcia and her found out she’s got four plane tickets booked out of BWI the day after tomorrow; headed to Belize” 

“And to a non-extradition country from there, I assume” Hotch says. 

“If they’re flying commercially, they will have to unload the money first” Rossi adds, “33 million dollars in cash takes up enormous physical space.” 

“That they’re carrying in the back of an ambulance” you remind them. Hotch’s eyes land on you, taking in for the first time your appearance. He tries to steel his face and not let his worry show, while everyone is still around – not when your entire face has turned white. He notes the lack of gloves too – your hands light blue, gripping tightly the black scarf around you. The top of your head is wet from melted snowflakes. He sees the way you shake from shivers too – everyone does. 

“Good news,” Morgan says walking in, a radio in hand, “I’ve got Reid and Prentiss on the police radio” 

_Fuck, so you ran for nothing._

“What was she carrying on her when you arrested her?” you turn to Morgan, ignoring the way Hotch’s worried eyes linger on you. 

“Not much” he says, “A burner phone. The texts are limited right now, but Garcia managed to pull the last dozen numbers she dialed. She’s working on the rest using a reverse directory.” 

“Who did she call?” Reid asks from the radio, voice muffled. 

“Friends and family” Morgan says, “And a couple to Oak Knoll out in Queens” 

“A racetrack?” Reid asks, “Who did she call from there?” 

“A guy by the name of Joseph Leseur. Garcia said he’s the director of Thoroughbred Racing.” 

You shake your head – _this is too easy, too transparent_. 

“What does one do when they have an enormous amount of old, worn-out bills with old serial numbers?” you ask the room. 

“Swap them with nice, new clean ones, and slowly” JJ answers. 

“We need to stake out Leseur’s house” Morgan adds. 

“We’re closer” Reid says, “If they plan on coming here, we’ll catch them” 

“JJ, Morgan and Rossi, I want you to join them right away” Hotch orders. They don’t wait for anything more, and bolt out under his directions. 

“I’ll stay with Martins until we shake up Ms. Bastin” Olivier says and walks out. 

“I’ll go with them too” you start, registering a bit too late what’s happening around you, your movements too slow. Hotch’s before you at once, as if he’d been waiting for you to be left alone. 

“You need to warm up, _now_ ” he says, voice at the same level of harshness that he’d directed to the murderess. He takes your hands away from your scarf and folds them between his. The warmth of his palms makes you gasp involuntarily. 

“Did you walk here?” 

“I ran” you correct, and he winces at that, “T’was not fun”, you mumble and he shakes his head. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I couldn’t find a single police car in the streets, Hotch. If I had I would have informed you through the radio beforehand.” 

“I’ll tell Detective Parker to find you a change of clothes so you can dry up.” he says ignoring your statements. 

“If not, you’ll get a bad cold.” 

You grimace – not _the_ detective Parker who’d you hit on once just so he could hand you information on Reus months ago. 

“Come on” he says softly, and he brings your hands up to leave a warm kiss over your frozen fingers, “You can help Garcia.” 

He switches to hold your hands in one of his, large enough to wrap around both at once. The other he cups your cheek, trying to bring some light to your face. You lean into his hot touch, your eyes shutting at the contact. 

At your pout, he adds “Either that or I send you home” 

“You’re not my boss anymore” you say through chattering teeth. You’re in full blown out shivers, and it’s mostly to the quick change of temperature from below zero of the outside world, to the warm offices. 

“Don’t test me” Hotch says, not letting you out of his hold, “I know you _like_ orders” 

That grants him a smile, and you let yourself get handled as he pushes you out the room, calling quickly Olivier and Detective Parker who he leaves in charge with the responsibility of warming you up. When you’re dry (clothes and hair too) and standing with a space blanket around your shoulders, a large FBI snow jacket over it, you huddle with the rest of the officers to listen to what’s happening at Leseur’s house. Only Martins and Olivier are with you from your team. Hotch had left shortly after he’d sent the BAU away. 

_“All units be advised that a Stuyvesant Memorial ambulance just passed the road closure and is driving east across the City Island Bridge”_

_“Copy that.”_ You hear Hotch’s voice through the police radio, “ _Let them through. We’ll arrest everybody after they pull up to Leseur’s place”_

Silence. 

You look around to the faces around you, all familiar – all the police officers you’d met yesterday with Reid. 

_“Hold it”_ Morgan says through the radio, _“Officers, wait for the exchange”_

There’s Detective Parker too, and you see behind him stands the woman from FEMA who’d made the announcement yesterday. She’s looking too, eyes fixed on the radios between you all. 

“ _Agent_ _Hotchner_ _, I think one of the EMTs just made me. I’m going in”_

You hold your breath as the radios go quiet, all the police officers going out at once, nobody left to inform you over the events. A good 7 minutes pass in silence, everyone visibly fidgeting, impatient to hear back. Detective Parker pushes through, grabbing a receiver. 

“This is Detective Parker; can someone tell me what is going on? Do we have the 33 million or what?” 

There’s more silence on the other end and then a police officer’s voice: 

“No sir, the back of the ambulance is empty, apart from a stretcher and medical supplies” 

You push yourself back from the table, standing up. 

“I don’t understand.” You turn to Martins and Olivier, still near the interrogation room, having heard everything too. 

“We were waiting for a Stuyvesant Memorial ambulance, and even though there was no emergency at Joseph Leseur’s house, a Stuyvesant Memorial ambulance showed up! Can’t be a coincidence.” 

_You’ve been duped._

_\---_

When you make it back to the house, together with the rest of the team, you see that same WSV you’d gotten in the beginning, parked in front. Prentiss gets out first, and then Reid. Not before hearing the driver say, while she hands him a business card. 

“- if you ever need a snowplow for hire again, give me a call” 

You smile at that exchange as Prentiss raises a hand in a wave at the woman. 

“New friends?” Hotch deadpans at Reid, who shakes his head, face flushed. 

Once inside, you all pause in the living room, fire in the fireplace already lit. Every surface of the living room is otherwise sparkling clean. As opposed to the dusty and stuffed smell of yesterday, the entire house smells almost like vanilla – quite a contrast from when you’d first arrived. 

“Wow,” JJ lets out, impressed, “what’s all this for?” 

Olivier shrugs, “I called in a few favors. The house was too cold last night, so while we worked the place was cleaned up too.” 

You break out from the group, drawn towards the fireplace like a moth. Today’s run through a snowstorm still an effect on your body that now cannot continue without constant warmth. 

“There’s your praise over a job well done” Morgan says, smiling at your actions. 

“I think so too” Olivier says, laughing when you sit down inches away from the fireplace. 

\--- 

You don’t remember what you were dreaming about before but it changes – Hotch’s warm hands from the interrogation room now a tangible memory as you sleep. You let out a hum of contentment remembering how his fingers had wrapped around your hands, the kiss he’d left over your cold knuckles and fingers too. His hands over your cheeks as well – a bit calloused from the many years of holding a gun – and big, yet nice and warm and pleasant over your skin. And he knew to do more than _just_ hold you with his hands. He was always able to leave electricity on your skin at every touch. He was so _incredibly_ deft with his fingers. They were most definitely your _absolute_ favorite thing. 

_“Saya”_

His voice too – rough and husky and attractive, always melting you into a puddle. He’d been a sight to see today too while he was giving orders around. And he knew how to use _that_ to his advantage in _all_ areas of his life. 

_“Honey”_

_Oh, and when he called you with pet names..._ you could just eat him up, _damned_ whoever was around. Him calling you anything but your first name _never_ failed to make you halt whatever and just kiss him. 

“Saya, _baby, wake up”_

You’re stirred awake again, for what seems to be a common occurrence while being in the Brownstone. Hotch’s face inches from yours is the first thing you see when you open your eyelids – and realize that your dream hadn’t been a dream. He is here – in your room, waking you up. _In the dead of night?_

The feelings of surprise that arose earlier leave you at once - replaced quickly by a rush of excitement. You remember Emily’s words, and then the discussion from this morning. Had he gotten an idea after you joked that you’d invite him to your bedroom next time? _Well,_ you wouldn’t complain over that would you? Not when he looks like this – handsome and yet gentle, watching you with those same eyes - full of attention and adoration, the same he’d had when worried over health hours ago. His hair is fluffy from a recent shower perhaps, strands falling recklessly over his forehead, now too long and untended to, so they reach his eyebrow. And you feel _feverish_ again, for absolutely different reasons. 

“Are you awake?” he asks, voice a whisper. 

“Mhmm” you nod, and push away the blankets from your chest, feeling already too hot. “I’m _so_ glad to see you” you whisper back, voice still drowsy and clouded with sleep. 

He stifles a smile, and you note he’s not touching your bed yet. He stands slouched at your level, his hand rests over your cheek, face so close you can smell him - distinctly of aftershave and aloe vera. And you want to kiss him right away. 

“I can’t hear you at all” you say - wanting to trick him to be nearer - and he takes the bait, leaning closer. Finally, where you want him, you reach up with both arms, wrapping them around his neck and bringing him to you. The sudden movement throws him off balance, almost collapsing over you. He tries to hoist himself up with a hand over your bedframe. 

“Saya, _this isn’t_ what you think-” 

But before he can say anything else you kiss him sweetly. A deep sigh of pleasure escapes your throat from the contact alone - immediate and feral, as if emerging from a hidden, dark part of you that you were not aware it existed - and it comes as a result of the long time not having his body touching yours. And as an accumulation of all your dreams. Of seeing and imagining him touching you. Of the _gaping_ need to have him satiate your deepest desires. You'd never been like this before - _too needy, too much, too physical_. But he seems to have turned you into this wild being - almost heedlessly. The kiss gives you momentary release. Maybe it's the touch of your warm lips over his; or your rushed movements and grabby hands; or your soft loud noises - but he comes undone too, falling helplessly over your bed, crushing over your body. And you pray to a God that he is here because of what you desperately want.

“I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about it too - ” you say in a breath, lips moving down to his jawline and neck, trailing a path of wet kisses. One of his hands immediately goes to your neck, wrapping tightly around, thumb resting against your jugular - lighting you on fire, and with the other he holds himself up. You’re still drunk on sleep and you’re sloppier than you want to be, but he still feels _so_ good over you. Even through the sheets, and any other layer of fabric. His body is heavy over yours, but not yet uncomfortable or unpleasant. You trail back upwards until your mouth finds his earlobe, taking it between your lips and tugging it gently. With a breath that is ragged and urgent, you whisper, voice sweet like honey: “-let’s _have sex_ right now” and you feel the goosebumps over his skin emerging at every syllable.

Before he can respond or you can – to convince him more if needed, he guides you back to his lips, only to part open your mouth - kissing you open-mouthed and messy. Yet you take the reins again, taking his tongue in between your lips and sucking it, driving loud reactions out of him. He lets out a moan that is _erotic_ to your ears – and you switch to using your teeth instead, gently squeezing his lower lip and pulling back, until it slowly slides through your teeth. You want him - _plead_ him to let go of all his inhibitions. Instead, his hand leaves your neck, moving to the sides of your face, over your pillow. He holds himself up, detaching completely from you. His breathing has gotten ragged, eyes hooded and wild as he stares back at you. 

“The door is open” he says breathily, his voice husky - an aftereffect of your touch. His words effectively freeze you in place before you can even think about kissing him again. Your eyes go to your bedroom door, not even slightly ajar but fully open, for anyone, _everyone,_ to have witnessed or heard your small performance. 

“ _Fuck”_ you breathe out, cheeks immediately red and heated, “you could have said something!” you whisper-shout. 

He raises his eyebrows, “You started this” 

“I was asleep! I did not know all the facts!” you let out in a breath, “Excuse-me for wanting to make out with my lover” 

“ _Lover?”_ he asks, voice too cocky, “Right, because you’re so extremely _innocent,_ and wanted to make out _only._ ” 

“Oh, yeah? So, you didn’t want any of this?” you ask, now too hot. And knowing you’d have to stay like this too, you snap at him, “then did you come into my room already _hard_ or did that happen just now?” 

He gets up, turning away from you abashedly, like you’d never seen _that_ before in your life. 

“Jesus” he says in frustration, “It’s not my fault you were calling out my name in your sleep” 

_You were?_

You sit up, glancing at the phone over your bedside table – 02:00 am. It hadn’t been too long since everyone went back to sleep. 

“What’s this about, _Hotch_?” 

At the sound of his own name, he takes another step away from your bed. 

“Why did you come into my bedroom in the dead of night if it’s not to have sex?” 

Your bluntness catches him off guard again, and he’s now all the way to the window of your bedroom. 

“It’s about work.” he says, voice audibly frustrated, “Reid and Rossi had an idea, so I’m waking up everyone from the BAU. They’re in the basement.” 

That’s all you need to hear, so you push away your sheets, standing up and stepping into your slippers. 

“Do you want me to wake up the girls?” you ask, “so you can take care of your _problem?_ ” 

“Bathroom?” he asks, and once you give him directions, he disappears from your bedroom. 

\-- 

You wake Emily and JJ as Hotch had told you too, and quietly head to the basement. Rossi and Reid sit over the floor of the working room, a giant map of N.Y in between them. 

“Thanks for attending this meeting” Rossi says, when you all approach them. “Close the door behind you.” 

Emily does as he says, all of you exchanging confused looks with one another. 

“What’s this about?” you ask, eyeing the room. They’ve got stacks of papers at their feet, and you note they haven’t changed their clothes since you’d last seen them at dinner. They’d probably stayed awake working, even after you all went to sleep. There’s a ruffle of papers from behind you and you jump out your skin. 

“Sorry” Morgan says, standing up, bringing with him a few maps before sitting down beside Reid. 

“Reid arrived at a conclusion” Rossi says, “please take a seat” 

JJ and Emily do as he suggests, switching quickly to work mode. You’re not too excited to sit over the cold tiles of the floor, so you take an old wooden box you spot by the door, and walk over to them, sitting down over it.

“Where’s Hotch?” Rossi asks everyone, but his eyes find you – and you think he already blames you for _whatever_. 

“He had to pee” you say, “or he's probably making tea or something.” 

“Right” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“Well, go ahead” you say, urging him on, “what’s your grandiose plan about?” 

He points at the map under Reid’s fingers – who takes over right away. 

“According to Garcia, we have reason to believe Reus and co. were here...” he points at a spot over the map, not far away from EROC, “... at 3pm.” 

Prentiss and JJ hunch over to see it too. 

“That’s when multiple eyewitnesses report seeing a Stuyvesant Memorial ambulance flagrantly disregarding a severe traffic accident on Soundview Terrace” 

“Pretty odd for an ambulance to ignore those in distress” Rossi fills in. “Less strange if it is carrying 33 million dollars in cash instead of medical supplies.” 

“So?” Prentiss asks. 

“Let’s assume” Morgan starts, “that the thieves learned that we are looking for them. They call in a false distress signal to Joseph Leseur’s house, and then they take their stolen cargo elsewhere.” 

“It’s hard to see where they could have gone” Rossi says, “I mean every cop was looking for them at this point. And the city was a maze of emergency checkpoints.” 

“Yes” you let out, “the whole city was virtually locked down. We _know_ this” 

“I tried to see how an ambulance could have got anywhere, even a decent hiding place when there was quite literally nowhere for it to turn” Reid says.

“It’s impossible” JJ says, “The only way it could have gotten anywhere is if those checkpoints and road closures weren’t there” 

“But they were” Prentiss rebuts, “You can’t just wish them away.” 

“ _Most_ people can’t just wish them away” Rossi says, with a smirk. 

“Can you get to the point please?” you ask, wanting to skip all this lead up to whatever they’ve already solved. 

Hotch walks into the room. He joins the rest of you, standing instead behind Reid. 

“Garcia sent over a copy of yesterday’s dispatch log” Morgan says, leaving on the ground between you a stack of papers. “Now, Reid read the events of the blizzard.” 

Reid recites them by memory: 

“At 3:32, a stretch of St. Ann's Avenue was reopened when officers manning a checkpoint were reassigned to Garvey Park” 

Rossi takes the lead over the map, removing the colored note they’d glued to signal the different checkpoint locations. 

“3:45. Police officers at the Triborough Bridge were directed to investigate reports of a fire that turned out to be false” 

Rossi takes off another colored note – another checkpoint. 

“At ten to 4:00, the checkpoint at Astoria and 31st was deemed unnecessary and shut down.” 

And then another. 

“There’s many more.” Reid says, “Which all lead to an escape route out of New York” 

“So, someone’s parting the Red Sea?” you joke. “Who has the power to do that?” 

“A high-level player from the inside.” Hotch says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Silence fills the room at once. 

You look around, noting the people that are missing. 

“Why are we having this meeting right now?” you ask, looking directly at Hotch. “Where are Martins and Olivier?” 

But it’s Morgan who answers you, “You told us you don’t trust Martins, and he had a sudden shift in leadership” 

You stand up – they can’t possibly think Martins has something to do with Reus. Not when all he wants to do more than anything is catch him so he can achieve his own goals at whatever terrorist he wants to get next. 

“Olivier has doubts over him too.” Rossi adds, “Junie as well” 

“Look,” you say turning to face them, “I’m literally the creator of ‘Let’s hate Martins’ fanclub but he has nothing to do with this. I _promise_ you” 

Morgan and Rossi do not seem to believe you. 

“He’s a dick most cases, and he doesn’t respect me or my decisions at all. And I despise everything he does or stands for -” you say then, “ - those are the reasons I dislike him. Not because I believe he cannot do his job. Or that he has some kind of personal connection to Reus” 

“You can’t blame us for thinking about him” Hotch says, “He’s narcissistic” 

“Yes,” you say turning to him, “exactly. But he’s not a criminal mastermind, okay?” 

And dammit, you have been wrong before – could have been with Revi. But you’re more than sure over Martins’ innocence. 

“I know William Martins” you say to them, voice almost too exasperated, “and trust me, he has nothing to do with this.” 

Morgan is ready to say something else, but Hotch raises a hand stopping him silently. 

“Very well,” he says, “what about Olivier?” 

“I can vouch for him too” you say, not hesitating for a moment, “Junie as well. They’re both saints” 

“Okay” Hotch says calmly, and it surprises you a bit at how easily he takes your words to be true. 

“Then it is someone else. Probably someone more familiar to New York.” 

You think back to today’s happenings – the radio calls, Detective Parker, and the woman from FEMA. 

“Or from NYPD” you say. 

Reid looks at you in surprise. “What do you mean?” 

“Reid, how much is a FEMA Emergency Response Administrator paid in salary?” 

He realizes immediately to who you’re referring to, as do the others. 

“She’s a GS-13 on the government pay scale.” 

You shrug, “Could be a motive. She’s paid what-” you look towards him again, wanting a comparison - 

“The same amount as the postmaster of Sheboygan, Wisconsin” Reid says, following your train of thought. 

“So, she wanted a raise?” Morgan asks, “that’s not enough of a motive. Or a case” 

“Reus is gone” you remind them all, “the one we’ve got isn’t talking. Why do you think she won’t take your deal, Hotch?” you glance at him and he furrows his eyebrows thinking it over. 

“Honor among thieves?” Prentiss proposes. 

“Or she’s got a bargaining chip” Hotch says at last, “the identity of a corrupt government employee.” 

“That is” JJ fills in, “until she is quite certain that her inside contact cannot facilitate her escape” 

You all turn to stare at the map on the ground, having now found another prime suspect. Morgan stands up at once. 

“I’m going to try to get Garcia and have her look into Denise Castor. Anything can help to make a case.” He stops before you, placing a hand over your shoulder, “I hope you’re right, Saya” 

_You hope so too._

_\----_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all, thnx for reading and stickin thru this with me, I appreciate it v v much!!
> 
> as always lemme know what you guys think and if theres sth u'd like to read about!
> 
> (also hmu on twitter, same username, or tumblr: @rivierasunsetdiner)
> 
> Also yall - lemme know what u think! Sometimes when i finish writin sth im like damn ! This is good and 2 hrs later my brain is: delete this abomination lol


	23. Roll Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make a plan to catch the thieves' collaborator - and you can finally taste how close you are to catching Reus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V short chapter - but maybe a jealous/territorial Hotch?? oooo
> 
> (Also if u close an eye while reading any fight scenes maybe they will look kind of ok lol)
> 
> title from the song by Neighborhood (simply bcs that's what i was listening to while editing this lol)

A plan is made in the early morning as Detective Parker is made aware of the suspicion over Denise Castor. The police department will act out a riot in the offices, which conveniently will call upon every police officer away from the interrogation room and the floor. And it works. 

Denise Castor enters the room, a jacket in her hands that she throws over Elle’s wrists to hid her cuffs. 

“Here we go” Prentiss says at your left. 

“The happy collaborators are on their way out” Rossi narrates. 

“Not a word” Denise says at Elle, “Let’s go” 

“Son of a bitch” Detective Parker lets out. 

Hotch raises a hand, “tell your officers to arrest her only when they clear out the floor” 

“Why?” he asks. 

“Otherwise, you cannot charge them with escape” 

His years as a prosecutor help the case – and soon enough Morgan and JJ arrest them both on the staircase as they’re about to flee. 

\-- 

“We need to talk” Olivier says, when they bring both women back in, “alone” 

You follow him outside to the roof of the building and he holds out a cigarette, which you take but do not light. He perches his over his lower lip. 

“You need to tell me about your relationship with Reus” and he lights it up, taking a quick drag. 

You flinch because you’d thought only Martins would ever question that. Or even think that you were romantically attached to Reus. 

“Olivier, I do not have-“ 

He cuts you off. 

“I’m not Martins” he says as he steps away from door of the rooftop, walking further away from it. 

“I know your relationship with Reus is not an intimate one.” He says once you follow behind. 

“You told us about your former-colleague Revi, and that they’re half-brothers. So, I do think this case is personal for you” 

“It is” you confirm. 

He turns to you, “then you need to tell me why.” 

You falter, not knowing what to say. 

“Saya, when we arrest Reus he becomes a CIA asset. Whatever questions or things you want to address with him – will not be possible once Martins gets him.” 

You curl your free hand into a fist. 

“Junie and I can help” he says then, catching you off guard, “we can delay it – say we have to interrogate him for the cases we need to close with Interpol while he was in Europe. But you need to tell me _everything._ ” 

You take the lighter from his hand, and finally light up your cigarette. 

“Okay” you breathe out, “I will tell you” 

_And you do._

\-- 

The team is split between two interrogation rooms: Morgan and JJ are with Denise, while Hotch and Martins question the murderess. You, of course, watch the latter, in the company of Reid. 

You hadn’t talked since the day before yesterday, but the awkwardness had somehow faded. When you bring him a coffee from the coffee machine, he finally gives you a small smile which you reciprocate. 

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable” you say at last, as Martins on the other side of the glass repeats the terms of the deal to Elle Bastin, and how her options are scarce. 

“What are you referring to?” Reid asks in a small voice. 

“I know you were the one to find us in the living room originally, and not Rossi” 

He takes another sip of the warm coffee. 

“I thought if it was Rossi to wake you up, Hotch wouldn’t be mortified” he says turning to you. 

_It’s true – had it been Reid instead, he would have been._

“That’s very considerate of you. Thank you” 

He gives you a small nod, returning his attention to the guys’ work. Hotch and Martins have switched roles – the former being bad cop and the other good cop. Hotch repeats to her how much in trouble she is, while Martins gives her options. They weirdly work well together – something you’d never expected. 

“Have you thought about my proposal?” he asks. 

You look at him confused, “what proposal?” 

Reid gives you a quick glance, “over talking about what’s worrying you” 

_That night at the bar_ – him telling you that you’re free to share your own relationship troubles with him too. But then, there weren’t _any._ You’d been content working around and with him these days – and even hardly been able to keep your hands to yourself. 

“There were dry tears in your cheeks, when I saw you that night” Reid says, his voice a breath, as if he is afraid you’re going to run away from exposing your vulnerabilities. 

“I – I… What?” 

_You don’t remember at all._ You’d just fallen asleep in Hotch’s arms – that’s it. You don’t remember being sad over something. You just felt _bittersweet_ that he told you he loved you so easily. And yet, you were still devoid of a good part of his life – of him as a former husband, as a family man, as a father to Jack. The only part of him that he kept locked up, and away from your eyes. And you couldn’t help but feel that he maybe didn’t even mean it – _any of it_. 

“If you want to talk about it” Spencer repeats slowly, letting his words sink in, “We can have a drink tonight. Or any other night once we’re back” 

And you’re grateful that you’d found a _good friend_ in him. Prentiss on the other side bursts through the room, and she hands a file silently to Hotch and Martins. They take turns reading it, and then Hotch stands up. He slams his hands over the table, scaring the bejesus out of the woman. 

“The test result came back – we found gun residue in your palm. You’re going away for life” He says, voice loud and threatening. It seems to crack her façade at once. Martins at his side shakes his head. 

“I can’t help you, if you don’t help yourself” he says – the words too cliché but seemingly resonating to her. 

\-- 

For the rest of the day and night, you’re all stuck in the police department, taking shifts watching between the two interrogations. The two women are scared but they also hesitate – not knowing if their interrogators are being honest. You’d taken to providing coffee and tea to everyone, only as a way to keep yourself busy and your brain still working. Even providing food too – all take outs that were from the same one place still open at this weather – that you’d insist and try to convince the others to eat and chew for energy. 

You stop before the coffee machine for what seems like the thousandth time today – and this time you sit down over the table – too drained from running around and repeating the same actions all day long. 

“They’re not letting up” Detective Parker says, waking you up from your zone-out. 

“What?” you blurt at him. 

He stands awfully close to you given the small kitchen that is not enough for a single person let alone two. His tie and collar are popped open and there’s a coy smile playing at his lips. 

“The women” he says, “I thought _your_ people would have given up by now” 

You kind of want to ask him what in the world he’s finding so amusing that he keeps smiling. 

“You’re insistent, I’ll give you that” 

“Well,” you start, directing your eye contact to the coffee machine instead of at him, “that’s what we are trained for, normally” 

“I see” he says, nodding to himself. He takes another step forward, now standing almost directly in front of you. That simple act irritates you – that he so clearly would take up your private space, or even not realize it might make you uncomfortable. 

“So, would it take much convincing for you to _train me_?” 

_It would take a_ _fuckton_ _of convincing, guy._

_“_ I’m sure we can recommend you to a few beginner’s programmes offered by the Bureau, adequate for your level”, you say, silently begging now for this fucking coffee to be done already. 

“I’m not a beginner” he says, slowly, and he leans back against the counter, and he crosses his legs, stretching them over to your side. The slight wiggle of his eyebrows makes you realize – much too slow, but that’s because you’re run-down from the day – that he’s not even talking about the interrogation. He’s making some sort of sexual innuendo and he wants you to _what_ – flirt with him while at the office? An awkward laugh falls out of your mouth – your body reacting for you, for a lack of something useful to say. 

“And I’m sure _I can teach you_ more than a few tricks” His eyes peer at you, looking you up and down, tongue shooting out to lick at his lower lip as he nods. 

Your eyebrows shoot up – and it’s taking you even longer to think of a comeback, something witty and _devastating_ , and those usually come to you quick – but you feel cornered. Because he’s a police chief, and because you’d hit on him first. Granted, only to get him to yield those _fucking_ documents needed to understand Reus. 

“Detective Parker” 

Hotch’s stern, cold voice shakes him out of it. He stands before you two, eyes focused only at him. Parker straightens up immediately – even though this is his department, and territory. 

“I asked you about the correspondence with FEMA” he says. 

He’s using his interrogator voice – you note, and his posture is the same too, threatening and imposing. No wonder Parker is as scared as he looks. 

“Yeah, _man_ ” he says then, waving a hand at him, and trying to regain some sort of authority, as if just now remembering his position. “I’ll get them to you; I’m just taking a relaxing break with Agent Kuroki.” He points at you then, and smirks back at Hotch. “ _You_ need one as well” 

You’re too excited to see what Hotch’s reaction to _that_ will be. 

“We have three fugitives at large” Hotch snaps, and he gets nearer to the guy, glaring at him like he’s scum on earth, “One of them is a serial murderer, and wanted in 54 states, including the U.S and Europe.” 

Detective Parker finally sorts out his posture, his legs now away from your bubble and spine ramrod. 

“We have a murderer and thief in the interrogation room, and a corrupt government employee in the other.” Hotch continues. 

“Agent Kuroki _is not_ taking a break” He's looking at Parker like he’s about to snap his head off, “She’s helping the rest of us do our jobs. I suggest you do yours.” 

Detective Parker only stares at him, mouth agape, and he swallows - 

“I will get you those files” he says, and he doesn’t even look at you, completely forgetting you even exist. 

You can only stare at Hotch, too caught from his – well, _everything_. There’s a deep scowl on his face, leftover from Detective Parker’s proximity to you. And his voice – his _goddamn_ angry voice, had been _heady._ And his presence and posture – he almost looks taller, towering over you too. The coffee machine beeps – it literally makes you jump with a small yelp, shaking you out of your trance. 

“ _Fuck”_ you breathe out, and Hotch’s eyebrows go up, noting your breathy voice, and your flushed cheeks “that was-” 

_Hot._

_Jealous Hotch is hot._ Yet you fear voicing it aloud, not when you’d despised Parker a minute ago for flirting in the workplace, albeit it had been towards you and unwanted. 

He watches you as you bring your hand up, placing firmly your own cold knuckles to your neck, trying to cool yourself down. It’s way past midnight and you can’t stop thinking about last night too – it's _deplorable_ that it’s the first thing in your mind. 

“Is that for me?” he asks, bopping his head towards the coffee cup sitting full. 

_Oh, it is for you_ \- you shake your head. You feel like a horny, needy, lovesick, lame-o. 

“Oh,” you nod quickly, flustered, “oh, yeah” you take the cup with both hands and hold it out for him. 

He takes it just as easily, not a second-thought in mind, and his hands brush yours, making your entire body heat up at once. 

“Sugar” he says, before leaning across from you, his arm shamelessly skimming your entire lower stomach, hand stretching towards the sugar packets at your left. Your breath hitches in your throat – and you almost combust. That’s about all the action you’re going to get tonight, but it’s enough to have you spiraling already. 

When he leans back, he does so slowly, stopping close to your face, an eyebrow going up – _he knows–_ and looks at you, straight in the eyes: 

“ _Not now, honey_ ” he says, with that voice of his and goes back. Turns on his heel and leaves you cold and alone without his proximity to you. 

_And you’re a mess._

\-- 

It takes long excruciating hours before Hotch finally cracks Bastin and she finally gives up Reus’ location at the light of dawn. It leads the entire BAU, you and Martins too, to a two-stories-high house in New York, vests and guns drawn, ready to storm the building. Elle Bastin had said they were going to keep the ambulance hidden in the garage. You, Martins, Morgan and JJ go from the back, the rest from the front. 

Morgan kicks the door down, JJ behind him, and the thieves respond with shots right away. Morgan takes one out at once, the others running to hide immediately in the kitchen, and Morgan and JJ follow. 

“Do we have a visual on Reus?” Prentiss asks in the comms. 

“Negative” Martins says. 

“I’m heading upstairs” you let them know and climb the stairs fast. The floor up is eerily quiet in comparison to the shootout below, and dark. 

There’s a noise behind you and you turn fast, gun aimed and ready to shoot. 

“It’s me” Martins says, raising a hand to halt you. You let out a small curse and point to the left, directing him there, as you take the right. Reus is somewhere hiding, not for the first time in his life. You pass a bedroom – _clear,_ you shout over the comms, and then a bathroom, nobody in. Then from the other side you hear distinctly a huff and then a loud thud to the ground, vibrating through the entire old wooden floors. _Martins._

You basically sprint towards the noise, kicking down a bedroom door. Martins and Reus struggle on the floor – the former’s gun out of his hand, rolled all the way back to the door, and you pick it up at once. 

They roll again – and you can’t shoot because they’re fast. Everything is a whirlwind – as they direct punches and kicks at one another. Reus’ back hits against a bookshelf, a dozen books falling over him and Martins face. The latter is distracted from the objects, one coming to hit him directly over his nose. Reus kicks him off, and he scurries on hands and knees towards the table in the room, close to the window. Martins yanks him back by his ankle, making him claw at the carpet of the floor, trying desperately to hold on. He kicks a left foot which hits Martins square over the jaw. But the man never yields – bleeding and raw, he hoists himself up on his knees and lands a right to Reus’ face. Blood oozes out of Reus’ mouth and nose, splattering over the ground. You struggle to keep your aim at him but Martins blocks your field of vision, as he never relents his punches in a trial to subdue the other man. Your eyes catch it too late – Reus' right hand stretching over the carpet reaching a thick book and raising it up – and he hits Martins with it across the face, sending him barreling away. Reus rolls him over; his left-hand wraps around Martins neck – grip so tight you see Martins choking for oxygen. Reus’ quick at landing a right punch across Martins’ jawline and then he raises it again – 

You cock your gun – 

“I dare you to try the next one” 

He turns at your voice – familiar, and steeled. He flashes a smile your way. 

“Agent” he says through a sneer, “Wish I could say it’s good to see you” 

After London he’d grown out his hair again, and there’s a long scar from his eyebrow to his mouth – fresh and bleeding – something you’d missed from the fight. 

“ _I_ am overly exalted to see you” you say, aiming the gun to his forehead, “do you want to test if I’m still a good-two shoes?” 

His grin widens slowly as he raises his arms up over his head – Martins throat finally free as he inhales a deep breath, coughing loudly and painfully. His eyes dart from you to Reus. 

“I heard you’ve been travelling Europe for me” he says nonchalantly, still siting over Martins. “We should have gone together” he says, voice drawling, trying to mimic sympathy or what – friendliness? “Split the cost of travel and all that”, he says, “I think you would have liked me, had we met in different circumstances.” 

“Sorry” you say, approaching him, “I should have notified you of my itinerary beforehand. As should you.” 

You leave 3 steps between, aim unwavering, gripping it so tight in your hands that your knuckles have turned white. 

“You look better” He says, and he tilts his head to the side, looking you up and down. That mannerism is too familiar to you – too much like Revi’s. “Self-confidence suits you.” 

“On the ground” you order, “hands behind your back” 

He does as you say, but very slowly, as if to spite you. Martins stands up – his right eye and jaw are bloody, neck red and blotchy with a handprint – and you return him his gun. 

You kick Reus’ feet apart and when Martins is aiming at Reus, you holster your gun. You lean over, knees over his spine so he doesn’t move, and cuff him. 

“We have a lot to talk about, Agent Kuroki” he says, jaw and cheek against the carpet – the fact he now knows your name getting to you, “I’ve practically dreamt of the moment we would meet again. _Have you?_ ” 

The shootout from below has ended, and you hear the quick steps from the hall. You hoist Reus up and he obeys you, standing at once. He’s taller than you, stronger and more heavyweight but for a split second you feel the rush of confidence wash over you – that you’d been the one to apprehend him. It’s bad that his words to you had helped too. 

“Jonathan Reus, you’re under arrest for three counts of robbery. Everything you do or say will be-“ 

You start reciting by default his rights, and Martins doesn’t leave your side, close and silent - 

Hotch, Morgan and Prentiss all burst through the door – all looking at you wildly. At the sight of you being alive and healthy, not a scratch or bullet wound in sight, Hotch lets out an audible sigh of relief. Reus notes it too. But the others are relieved as well. Morgan and Prentiss are quick at your sides, taking Reus immediately away from your grasp. 

“Your boyfriend is alive!” Reus exclaims, eyes fixed on Hotch, as Morgan pushes him out the door.

“Shut up” you and Hotch say simultaneously. Your attention goes to Martins who’s gotten pretty beaten up even in the short time. His face is scarred the most, and you remember faintly how much pride he has over it – how he’d hit on a secretary by saying it’s his most important asset. 

“Come on” you tell him, feeling sympathetic and bad that he’d been the one to get the most heat out of Reus, “let’s get you patched up, or you’ll lose your magnificent asset” 

He nods wordlessly and Hotch follows as you lead him out the house. You leave his side only when you drop him at an ambulance. The entire police force it seems, is gathered around the garage, pride smiles all abound. 

“The others?” you ask Hotch as you both make your way towards it. 

“One dead, and the others wounded. They’ll make it through” 

Reid and Rossi push through the officers and out to the open air. 

“There’s 33 million” Reid says, spotting the two of you, “I just counted” 

Rossi nods, “We’ve got the bastard” he says with a smile to you. 

Yes. Yes, you really did this time _._

_So, why don’t you feel happy over it?_

\-- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok yall idk when ill update now lmao, bcs i really have to study, like for real this time,  
> but as always thnxxx - lemme know what u think!
> 
> and sry i sometimes look back at a chapter and see how unedited and bad it is so i rework them - you'll note some chapters may be different and more fleshed out with descriptions and such - sorry for that!  
> but ill try to edit first and not later from now on!!
> 
> lemme know what u think!! pls and thank youu


	24. The Less I Know the Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something unexpected makes you confront Reus earlier than you thought you would

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i know i should be studying lol  
> idk what this chapter is - i wanted the thrill of sb's life in danger and also to see Hotch lose his shit so that's what this is, practically  
> *TW: blood, blood mention, and sb getting beat up
> 
> writin action is not my forte guys, so just read this with an eye closed, or like, drunk or sth, bcs i literally felt like a 1st grader who just learned english with the vocabulary in this but !!!!! either way!! u have angry!Hotch; losing his shit!Hotch and some other random stuff
> 
> (also if its not clear yet, the fact shes so struck by Reus' appearance is bcs they look almost like twins, and she keeps seeing Revi/Ronin instead)  
> -this is heavily unedited lol sry
> 
> *song by Tame Impala ayy lol

You’re more than fidgeting when you make it back to the police department, and _you’re unhappy_. You’ve hitched a ride with Morgan and Prentiss, as their SUV follows diligently the police car with Reus in the back. You hadn’t even stopped to discuss with anyone else at the scene – you remember faintly that it had become crowded, from the officers, the forensics, and anything else you cannot think of at the moment. 

It’s like your brain has stopped working once capturing Reus. The only thing in your brain like a mantra is him. _Revi_ and him. You’ve never been so impatient before in your life, and your leg is shaking from nervousness even in the car. _How will it feel when you know the truth?_ You don’t even note the way Morgan and Prentiss share looks with each other in silence, before Morgan turns to stare at you in the rearview mirror. 

Thankfully to Morgan’s driving skills you make it to the NYPD building in a short amount of time. The ignition isn’t even off yet before you jump out of the car, shutting the door behind you with a thud, ignoring Prentiss’ calls. Your legs take you fast towards the police car in front, wanting to witness it yourself – that Reus is here, and he cannot flee. You stop a few feet away and stare as two police officers drag Reus out of the car, his hands cuffed behind his back, and they guide him up the stairs of the building’s entrance. Your stare bores holes into the back of his head, _it must be_ – because he turns, as much as he can before he’s shoved forward by one of the officers. His smile – even his _fucking smile –_ you think, even _that_ has a faint resemblance to Revi’s. They disappear inside. You don’t know how long you stand there, frozen in place, before Emily is beside you, tugging you gently towards the building. That’s when you start functioning on automatic, robotic movements. 

When you’re finally inside, the department has fallen into a deep-set silence, even though the floor is swarming with officers, an after effect of witnessing an international fugitive getting caught, perhaps. Olivier finds you lingering in front of the interrogation room, and he has to place a hand over your shoulder to shake you out your thoughts. 

“Where is he?” you ask, voice foreign to your own ears. He hadn’t been taken anywhere else yet, and he’s not even in the interrogation room. Martins is still getting stitched up and checked, and well – if anyone has to interrogate Reus, he’d be first. 

“He’s getting checked by the M.Es” Olivier says, and he pushes a coffee cup into your hands. “It’s going to take some time. You should rest.” 

You turn to glare at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that” he says simply, voice sympathetic, “we’ve been working nonstop for 2 days now, and you look like you haven’t slept for 4 instead” 

You clench your fists, until your nails dig into your palms, almost drawing blood – an effort to not retort at him, and say something you’ll regret. Because all you want to say right now is: _you try having an almost clone of a person you care about turn out to be a fucking sociopath; and let’s see if you will want to sleep._ Instead, you say: 

“Fine.” just to appease him. But he knows you won’t rest, whatever the words in your mouth. 

You plant yourself at a desk station, turned to stare at the doors of the interrogation room – not wanting to miss the moment Reus will be walked in. Minutes, or hours pass – everything feels the same – as the floor starts getting slowly cleared out from police officers. At some moment, even Martins walks by you. His face is covered in large bruises – dark violet and still raw – and he has a scar on the underside of his jaw, running from his chin to his ear that is stitched up. You can’t even imagine what would have happened if you’d been the one to head left instead of him in the house. Maybe you wouldn’t have even been alive right now. 

Martins makes a clear path from the entrance door to the other side of the floor, far from you, stopping outside Detective Parker’s office, where Olivier stands. They’re talking with one another, and then you see from their body language that the conversation turns heated – Martins yells something at him, raising his arms, motioning aimlessly towards the desks, while Olivier shrugs, pointing at Detective Parker’s office. Then, both of them disappear inside. You’re too caught from that interaction that you almost miss it – Reus being walked through the floor. His face is cleaned up as well, but he’s sporting a scar on his cheek that’s been sutured, the one that Martins must have cut on him, before you could even witness it. His eyes roam around the space, and you think it must be as a way to gain control, noting exits and such. But when you stand up, his eyes find yours at once, his face contorting into a smile – making you halt. 

“Agent” he greets, cocking an eyebrow, “I didn’t make you wait too long, did I?” 

The scar running across his face – from his eye to one side of his mouth – is your saving grace, because your brain detaches him easily from Revi. It snaps you out of your thoughts and your automated responses, and even gives you a rush of self-confidence. You walk towards him, as the police officers pause before the door of the interrogation room. Now, restrained and with his hands on the front, wrists and ankles linked together with a chain, he doesn’t appear as threatening. You stop before him. The more you look at his face – the less he looks like Revi. 

“I’m _itching_ to talk to you” he says with that same smile, “I can see you are too” 

You know he’ll say anything to get to you, and he remembers your last chat – of course he does. But you don’t let him see that you feel the same as well. One of the police officers next to him, turns to open the door. The other is at his back, unlocking the chain that keeps his wrists together. 

“I’m also itching for some alone time” he says, and his smile is full-teeth now. With the new bound freedom, hands still cuffed, he raises them up to point a thumb to the room behind him. 

“Hey! What are you doing? -” Martins yells out, making you turn sharply at his voice, “he’s not supposed to be here yet!” 

When you turn to stare at Reus – _it’s too late_. 

He kicks a foot to the officer who opened the door, sending him barreling into the room; and when you reach for your gun, his wrists are up and they latch around your neck, turning you around so your back is flush against his chest. A bullet flies into the air and zaps next to your ear, the noise making goosebumps rise all over your skin, and you gulp. 

“ _Don’t shoot_ for fuck’s sake!” Martins yells out, and you can’t register anything that is happening around anymore. “That’s a federal agent!” he snarls. Your mind is running a mile a minute, because even if Reus is using you as a human shield, you’re still significantly shorter, and they can shoot at him – they can get him. 

_That is_ – until he drags you into the room behind. The last thing you see in your field of vision is a flurry of agents and officers running to you, guns drawn, desperation in their eyes. Then the door is slammed shut in front of you. You close your eyes, feeling Reus’ hold on you tighten, finally getting to the skin of your throat – accepting what is to come. _The lack of oxygen_. 

But it never does. 

Reus lets you go as soon as you’re inside. His attention is consumed with the door. He pushes chairs with his feet, barricading it. And you watch, frozen in place, as he grapples with the set of keys on the police officer’s pocket, and once he finds them, he locks the door, and stands back – as if admiring his work. If that’s not enough, he pushes the chair away – legs screeching loudly over the tiled floors, hitting the one-way mirror, and watches in unwavering fascination – as the people outside turn the handle to no avail. There’s knocks and slams on the other side and people yelling out his name and yours. It’s a cacophony of voices and your entire body is frozen. 

Then he takes a step back, and you awake. Your hand goes on instinct to your gun holster, as he turns to face you. But you come up empty – your gun is not where it’s supposed to be. Reus registers your hand placement, a flash of panic crossing his face momentarily, before relief washes over him that you have no gun. 

The only one is on the fainted police officer’ holster. 

Reus raises his wrists up and an index finger, “Hold it, _Agent_ ” he advises, “I want you to think this through” 

You eye the man on the ground between you two. He’s closer to Reus by a long shot, and even if you were to reach for the gun first, you’d never be able to distance yourself enough to threaten him – let alone shoot. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. And do just about the craziest thing you can fathom. 

You take the chair that he’d pushed to the glass, and pull it towards you, the loud screeching of the legs over the floor like nails on a blackboard. 

“You wanted to talk” you say, voice as confident as you can muster, casting a look his way “ _alone_ ” 

He watches you for a second – not quite believing your calm actions. 

“Let’s talk” you say, and he walks over to the other side of the table. Even though he’s the one with the power by a long shot – the officer’s body closest to him – you still bark him an order, “Sit down” 

There’s a smirk on his face, and for a split second you think this idea is about to blow over your head. But he drags a chair out from the table, and you both sit down at the same time. 

“Thought you’d never ask” he says, placing his arms over the table. 

\--- 

“What _the fuck_ is going on?” 

The words leave his mouth without thinking – and Hotch has never been one to curse in the line of work. Everyone standing near him knows this as they all turn to stare at their unit chief, anger and frustration exploding out of him like they’ve never witnessed before. It's all due to having lost you during the commotion - he doesn't remember the last time he's seen you, after you'd both witnessed Reus being hauled into the police car. And the fact you're not around even now - amongst the crowd of officers - it makes him more nervous and irritable.

Martins – _that weasel from the CIA, who he knows well_ – pushes through the flurry of police officers in front of the interrogation room to reach him. 

“Reus has locked himself in the room” he says. And for whatever reason, he starts trying to explain himself, as if Hotch is his superior. “The guards meant to watch him got the schedule wrong and showed up before he had to be called in” 

“How did he lock himself inside?” Hotch asks, and his eyes go immediately to the bullet hole piercing the doorframe. It follows a parallel line to the ground that leads all the way to the other side of the department floor. His question changes then: 

“ _Who_ is inside with him?” 

Martins’ entire skin turns white, and Hotch’s heart drops all the way to his stomach, reading the answer on his face. 

\--- 

He pauses and watches your every move, taking time to look at your face, hands, neck, and even your clothes. It’s in an effort to make you feel intimidated, you think, or maybe it’s the same thing you would too with an unsub to profile them. He's trying to read you as you are him – you realize. They didn’t say it for naught – that serial killers make the best profilers. Yet you don’t want to break the silence first – that signifies you’re the weaker one. He leans back then, pleased with whatever he’s gathered. 

“How have you been?” he asks, and out of everything – you hadn’t expected that to be the first question he’d ask. “It’s been a while” 

“It has” you confirm, keeping your tone neutral. You don’t ask anything yet – because you’ll need to test his patience first. 

“Did you like Europe?” 

His expressions mimic yours, and you let out a huff of air. 

“No” you say, in true honesty. 

He breaks into a lopsided smile, “I’d appreciate it if you elaborate more in your answers” he says, voice strained, feigning niceties. 

“It was cold, windy, and a lot of trains” you oblige at once, “I detest trains.” 

“Oh? You prefer another mode of travel?” he asks, and if it weren’t for the fact, you’re both in an interrogation room, and his restrained wrists – out of context this would have been an almost normal conversation. 

“I do” you answer, “I prefer air travel.” He nods, considering it, so you take a shot. 

“Did you enjoy Europe?” 

He shakes his head immediately, “It wasn’t my first choice” 

“I see” 

Hotch and Prentiss had told you once – in your first year as a trainee – that interrogations were much like a normal conversation. For the unsubs to open up, you’d need to establish a rapport, and share from your own life so they could share from theirs. 

“My father is a pilot” you say then, “I spent most of my time around him, and accompanying him in flights” 

Reus’ attention is sparked at that, as he listens more intently. 

“He was a military man at first, but when he retired, he started making small freight flights. He couldn’t stay too long away from the sky” 

He brings his chair closer, leaning over the table. 

“Is that why you have dog tags around your neck?” he asks, and your hand goes immediately to your necklace. 

“Yes” you say, “It’s why I ultimately became an agent” 

“That’s a lovely story." He nods, "You think kids have no alternative but to take after their fathers?” 

You almost flinch at the sudden change of topic and – because Ronin and Reus had shared the _same_ abusive father. 

“I don’t think so” you say, thinking about Hotch too – he and Ronin had both turned out to be nothing like their respective parents. 

“Ronin wanted us to be a big family” he says unprompted, catching you by surprise, “he told Paul that he could get help, a big facility where they would treat someone like him” 

You suck in a breath, steeling yourself. Because you’re supposed to be calm and feign interest, until he gives you the answers you want. 

“But you didn’t want that?” 

He shakes his head, “I didn’t want the bastard to get another chance. He had one – with Ronin, and then with me. The third child would probably be even _more fucked_ in the head. Don’t you think?” 

“You’ve strung up a quite impressive career” you say then – because he’s narcissistic, and takes pride over his work. “ _Unlike Paul_ ” 

He slams his arms over the table, and you don’t flinch. Because he’s not the first prisoner you’ve talked to, who’s tried to gauge a reaction out of you. He lets out a laugh - 

“You’re good” he says, pointing a finger at you, “When I did that to Ronin once, he almost fell backwards” 

You take another deep breath, and try again to change the topic once more. 

“Your career as a thief is quite successful” you repeat, “I have to hand it to you” 

He nods, looking down at the table – he's play acting, that’s what all of his reactions are. This one is to try to act _shy,_ and _humbled._

“So, why did you have to go after the teen girls?” 

His head shoots up, glaring at you – he hadn’t expected you to know that. It’s written in his face that all he wants to be remembered for are the robberies. 

“I didn’t-” 

“ _Marie Sycamor_ e” you say, and his face is rid of all sympathy, all acting. 

His hands over the table twist into fists. You push ahead. 

“ _Annabel Brown_ from London” 

He stands up at once, hovering over you, but you keep your head straight, never breaking eye contact. 

“You told me-” you start, hands over your lap shaking, because you can’t help but remember now – that he’d shot Hotch five times, with the intent to kill him and you. _He won’t hesitate_ – you know this. And you know in explicit detail what he’d done to those girls. 

“-you’d answer my questions” your breathing is totally out of control, but he’s more taken with himself now than with you. “You do and I’ll promise you a deal with the CIA” 

It’s a test to see how much he knows, since he’d mentioned you being in Europe. His eyebrows shoot up. 

“The CIA” he repeats flatly, “you don’t work for them” 

So, he doesn’t know about the task force. _That’s good._

”The man you assaulted” you remind him, “he works for them and now he owes me a favor after saving his life. I’m sure he’ll figure out a deal.” 

He watches you for a beat, waiting for any signs to appear that you’re lying or manipulating him. Then, he sits back down. 

“You answer my questions, and I'll give you what you want” 

\--- 

“The glass is bulletproof! It would take a tank to bulldozer through that door, Hotch” Morgan snaps, yelling back at him. 

Hotch’s face turns cold at the words, his voice like thunder “ _Then bulldozer it_.” 

Morgan stares at him, mouth agape, and watches as he strides towards Detective Parker, who stands there stupidly, not making a single decision over the situation at hand. 

“I want you to call the manufacturer, the building proprietor or the fire department. I don’t _care_ who you call” He hovers menacingly over Detective Parker, looking down at him, spitting the words at his face. 

“I want that door open in the next 5 minutes. You hear me?” The man cannot even gather his wits to nod, so Hotch’s words are sharper as he continues: 

“If not, I will personally have you removed as a head of this department and you will never work again as a detective in _your entire miserable_ life” 

Parker finally responds, yet his words get stuck in his throat as he chokes out a gargle, and then - 

“Yes, sir” 

\--- 

You cut to the chase – you don’t have patience for it anymore, as all of your nerves are pulled taut, waiting to snap. 

“When did Ronin learn about your existence?” 

There’s a smile at your words that makes your blood boil. 

“Since he was 10 years old” 

You swallow thick – _he'd lied to you_. He’d told you he’d never had siblings, and that it was a good thing, given the hell his parents had gone through – that _his father_ had made them go through. 

“Paul had a second family” 

You nod, because you don’t know what else you can do – you're too struck already. 

“I chased him once with my bike, because I hated that he was never home” he continues, “I hated my absent father. Guess I never thought what the other alternative would be.” 

You curl your hands over your fists, feeling for Ronin. 

“You could say my childhood was easier than Ronin’s.” His focus on you is earnest, and you have to tell yourself that it’s okay – that you’re finally getting your answers. Yet you feel distraught. 

“And then he left too” he says, “Fled with his mother from Paul, and we got the blunt of that abandonment.” 

You know he’s enjoying the reactions on your face – the way you flinch at every mention of Ronin or Paul. But you have to bear it to know the truth. 

“So, he disappeared – I couldn’t even track him, not until after some years when I saw his face on the Dallas newspaper” 

The noises behind the door stop at once – no more trials over the handle or callings of your name or his. But you don’t focus on it, so you don’t break his attention. 

“It was a shooting spree, I think” he says and you furrow your eyebrows at him – _could it be, the LSDK case that had brought in the BAU to collaborate_? You remember that Aria had made you take a photo as a unit once that was solved – because you’d stopped a spree killer (as the media had mistakenly named it). 

“He didn’t want to see me though,” he says, “he didn’t accept any of my calls. Not until the robbery in Dallas” He’s pleased at the way you lean back against the chair, retreating. “That’s what you want to ask, right? _If_ he helped his long-estranged brother?” 

You don’t have to answer because he knows it to be true. 

“I have a question for you first” he says, narrowing the distance between you two, lurching himself off his chair, until he is hovering over the surface of the table. He makes the next sentence sound like a threat:

“Did you know my brother was _helplessly_ in love with you?” 

\----- 

" _Aaron_ ” this time it’s Dave that calls him, trying to get him to stop yelling at everyone. He gets out of the adjacent room where JJ, Prentiss and Reid are in, following your talk with Reus, and stops in front of Hotch. The latter refuses to walk in to witness everything with his own eyes. Instead he stands with his feet planted outside, watching the firemen work on the door. 

Dave tries again, wanting to shake some sense into him “ _she’s fine_. You can see her through the mirror” 

Hotch takes a step towards the open door, wanting to cross the threshold but something makes him halt. What if everything goes wrong as soon as he steps inside? _What if he kills her now_ , like he’d wanted to on the rooftop? 

Olivier – the other man from the task force – who's inside as well, takes a risk: he pushes the door open with force, the heavy door reverberating through the wall, just so Hotch can peer inside even against his will. 

He sees you then – sitting straight on one side of the table, back to the mirror. He is unable to breathe for a full 30 seconds - the sight of you healthy and _fine,_ making his entire brain stop whirring. He can’t spot Reus because of the angle. If it weren’t for all the internal fights occurring inside him and outside the door – it would look almost like a normal interrogation. 

Then he hears your voice, full and confident: 

“ _I did not”_

Then Reus talks, and he can sense the amusement in his tone even though he cannot see him: 

“ _Ronin told me he loved a fellow agent – who was so smart, so beautiful, and so kind – that he didn’t have a chance”_

Hotch had heard you talk about Ronin while you were still in the BAU, in vague, general terms, and refer to him as a _colleague_ and even as a _friend_. Yet when he tried to push by asking more – whenever he’d so even mention Reus to you, he’d see you become evasive, detached and closed-off. He didn’t know much because you hadn’t told him – but he _knew_ your heart had to be breaking right now. 

\--- 

“My relationship with Ronin was like that of siblings” you counteract and you bite your tongue. Out of all the words you could have chosen you’d selected the worst ones. 

Reus laughs – a hollow, cold laugh that makes you wince. 

“Not for him” he says then. 

He expects you to feel shaken by the proximity but you’ve had prisoners hurl far more explicit things at you, inches away from your face – this wasn’t the least bit scarier than the rest. _Thank the BAU for that_ – actually. He’s buying time, you realize. He’s evading your question because you know that it will be over after that. 

“Did Ronin help you?” you ask again. 

He shakes his head, “he wanted us to go back to being a family unit – as if our childhoods hadn’t been destroyed. As if it could all go back, as if -” 

There’s a low grunt from the pavement next to the door, and he stands up abruptly. 

“ - he was so taken -” he continues. The police officer on the ground is waking up. 

“-he was living in this fantasy, that if everything were to fall back into place, his life would finally make sense-” 

He crouches over the police officer’s face, cleaning out the blood that lies over his forehead. The force of his kick had sent the poor man on the floor, nose-first. You stand up too – feeling like if you don’t watch his movements, he’ll end up doing something unfathomable. 

“Sometimes though-” Reus says, stretching his arms in front of himself, over the head of the police officer. You watch what he does, staying still, paralyzed in place - 

“some things are not made to make sense” he brings up gently the head of the officer with his fingertips over his chin - 

“ _Please-_ ” you mutter, words escaping your lips involuntarily, already predicting what he intends to do, ” _please_ _, no..._ ” 

Then in a swift motion, his fingers latch onto the cuffs straightening them up until they fall around his neck – his eyes stay locked on yours as he pulls – 

But you can’t let yourself watch – you're not a child, or powerless, _you’d trained years for this_ , and he’s cuffed - 

You’re before him in a second, and for the first time in your life – you kick with all the force you have in you, until the pointer of your shoe hits his side – lodging it as far as you can muster. 

The act catches him by surprise and he buckles, letting go of the police officer. He slams sideways to the wall behind, and away from the body of the police officer. The gun is still too far from your grasp but your reach for his baton, peeking out of his belt – yielding it just as Reus hoists himself up on his knees. 

His hands reach for the gun holster but you strike his fingers. He lurches for your legs but you’re quicker – hitting him across the face with the baton. His scar ruptures open, blood gushing out at once. He grabs the stick with both hands, blocking it into his cuffs and twisting so it falls off your hands. Now, _unarmed,_ you back away, your mind scrambling for other options. _Anything else_ you can do. But you come up empty. He smiles through the blood pouring hot over his face, until it is washing over his mouth, and staining his teeth. 

“I’m going _to kill you_ -” 

He surges forward, foregoing the gun, the baton and everything else. Your hip hits the table making you stumble backwards. 

The door bursts open, and you can’t see who gets to him first – there's so many hands and arms – and he’s hurled back and away from you. 

“ _I’m going to fucking kill you! You hear me? I’m going to kill you!”_

His words echo through the room one last time before he’s yanked out, his screams fading away with the distance. 

“Saya!” JJ is in front of you, pulling you by your arm, and you look around wide-eyed. The shock of everything getting to you at once. 

_He’s gone? He’s really gone?_

“Yes, Saya, he’s gone” she says. Someone else – strong hands and male voice – pulls you up too. To your surprise it’s Martins. He must see your grimace because he huffs. 

“We’re even now” he says, referring to when you’d saved _his_ life. “Let’s _never_ talk of this again” 

Your eyes are glued on the police officer who wakes up – the relief that washes over you overwhelming. 

\--- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thnxxx!!! for reading!  
> lemme know what u think!
> 
> *im planning some ~spice in the next chapter mayhaps bcs what's hotter than seeing your s.o after thinkin they're gonna die!  
> but let's see
> 
> also thnx forthe comments they literally make my day lmao!


	25. Two Slow Dancers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your confrontation with Reus opens up new wounds - leaving you to recall your last moments with Revi. And, more than anything - you need Hotch's support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (don't look at me i know i shouldnt be here)
> 
> but i wrote this last night so i thought why not publish it! in italics - flashbacks  
> TW: mention of abuse, mention of death, and blood,  
> and also TW: very mild very daring spice - aka. egg scrambling (which if you're reading it drunk out of your mind, will be kinda hot? ? idk),  
> (and maybe theres a praise kink sprinkled in there)  
> you'll see there's some inspiration from Pride and prejudice lmao - and also fyi im a huge fan of writing ridiculous/messy spicy scenes so
> 
> title from the song from queen Mitski, although the meaning is definitely different

_“Well, that was eventful”_

_You turn to the voice behind you sensing the smile accompanying his words. And sure enough, he is –_

_Tall and lanky and donning blue-light glasses that he uses whenever he sits in front of a screen_ _–_ _he’s smirking at you_ _mischievously_ _._

_“_ _Please” you say, keeping your voice flat, “don’t start”_

_“I didn’t say anything” he says, raising his hands up._

_“_ Ronin” 

_He shakes his head – you never called him by his first name unless he was doing, had done, or was thinking of doing something_ bad. 

_“_ _So, maybe I did tell Aria about that_ _programme"_ _he says at last._

_You roll your eyes, “I’m not going to travel all the way to Quantico just to follow_ some _programme_ _for a month”_

_He pulls the chair next to you and plops down on it, turning to face you._

_“I think you’d be great at it” he says, taking his glasses of_ _f_ _and casting them aside. “It’s intensive, yes, but imagine how useful it would be to have a_ profilee _in our unit”_

_Your eyebrows shoot up, “_ profiler _?”_

_“_ _Aria would lose her shit. She’d probably flaunt it to every unit around”_

_“A profiler?” you repeat again, “I never said I want to be a profiler”_

_He waves the words away as if_ _they are_ _flies in the air._

_“I saw you on the field_ practically _circling the BAU_ _few years ago”_

_“Yes” you confirm, pushing yourself off the table and out of your chair, “because Aria_ _requested,_ _I be a spy for their unit.”_

_He nods, already knowing this, and before he can continue, you add:_

_“_ _She just wanted me to relay every single_ _move_ _S_ _SA_ _Hotchner_ _was_ _making-“_

_Ronin’s smile changes in a blink, his eyebrows shooting up –_

_“You_ remember _his name?”_

_Y_ _ou shake your head, and_ _try_ _to_ _do the same with_ _his words_ _\- t_ _o_ _whatever_ _he’s already implying, and don’t let it get to you._

_“Aria_ _detests_ _them. Why would you think she’d let me_ _quit my job,_ _do a one-_ _month_ _programme_ _and then return as if nothing happened?”_

_He stands up as well,_ _and he passes a hand through his hair, making it stick in different directions. His smile is genuine and brilliant:_

_“_ _Because I’ll convince her to-“_

_The door bursts open as Verona walks in, her face scrunched into a frown._

_“Duty calls,_ nerds" _She says as she leaves a mount of papers over the conference table with a loud thud._

_“_ Saya -" _Ronin says – he never call_ _s_ _you by your first name until it’s something serious_ _–_ _and you can’t help but pause, giving half a thought to his_ _insane_ _idea. “-just think about it”_

_“We’ve got a doozy” Verona says, trying to get you two to finally pay attention, “it’s a robbery case-“_

_You nod at him,_ _half as a way to get him to back off so you can focus on Verona instead, and half because it_ _does_ _make sense in a way. Despite_ everything. 

_\----_

“Hey” 

Derek sits by you – the only person you hadn’t seen since an hour ago, when you’d left the interrogation room. 

“Hey” you repeat, your voice croaky and painful in your throat. Sitting alone in a bench over the rooftop of the NYPD building, for half an hour – is probably the reason to that. 

“You did well today” he says then, interrupting the silence that weighs heavily on your shoulders. 

“Did I?” you ask, for lack of a better thing to say. 

“You stood your ground with a sociopathic murderer” he says, with a hint of a smile, “you managed to buy time enough for a rescue.” 

“Right” you breathe out, nodding. 

“Only Spencer has ever accomplished that – and it was just because he was rambling so much that it caught the other person off guard.” He says with a laugh, and you manage a tiny smile as well. 

“Sounds like Spencer” you repeat and he laughs. 

“Yes, it does” 

You turn to look at him at last, and you just _know_ that he’d subdued Reus when the door had been burst open. It’s unsurprising since he can easily do it with any other unsub, but you feel grateful either way. 

“Thanks” you mutter, straightening up, “for getting him” 

The easy smile from his lips vanishes, turning serious as he nods. It confirms your thoughts. 

“Why are you staying up here?” he asks then, “everyone is looking for you” 

You turn to stare at the building in front then, eyes glued to the snow accumulated over the storefronts. 

“How did you know I was here?” you ask instead. 

“Olivier said you’d be smoking” 

He looks pointedly at your hands over your lap. Wrapped in Hotch’s gloves – that he’d loaned you after your ran through the snowstorm – you hold a cigarette pack and lighter in your palms. And you’d thought about smoking but you’d remembered Revi, and how he did it as a habit after every case. 

“It’s cold out here” Derek says then, and you stand up as if noticing it only now, too. 

“Come on” he says, voice softer as he stands, placing a hand over your shoulder, “I’m sure that if Hotch doesn’t see your face in the next 5 minutes, he’ll end up biting off Detective Parker’s head.” 

_And of course, Morgan knows too._

\--- 

Back downstairs, you shed your many coats at once, and your eyes search for Hotch immediately. Amongst everything that happened, and the many worried hands and eyes over you, the distance between you both had spanned wide. 

You couldn’t call out for him without exposing yourself to the entire NYPD. He couldn’t reach out for you, and hold you in his arms, without everything becoming public. 

Yet you’d felt his eyes on you as you’d been ushered outside the room and into Detective Parker’s large office. M.Es looked you over, examining even through your protests. And Hotch had stayed still like a statue outside, talking to Martins and Olivier, peering at you through the glass walls once in a while. Just to make sure you were still there. That you hadn’t left. And you were _alive_. 

It was like there was an ocean in-between you two, because of the many people surrounding you both. 

You _selfishly_ wanted him to leave everything and come to you. You wanted him to quit his duties and whatever orders he was relaying to Martins and Olivier, and just walk in, unashamed. Unbothered by whatever and whoever around. And just _hold_ you. But of course, he couldn’t. And the logical part of your brain – there but dormant – _knew_ he shouldn’t. 

Martins stops in front of you, planting a hand over your elbow. Your head is so clouded that you need people to shake you so you can pay attention to them. 

“We are postponing the questioning for some hours” he says, “we want him restless and exhausted so we are making him wait.” 

He’s informing you that Reus is back in the interrogation room, this time alone. You know that tactic of course – it was one the BAU always suggested. 

“But we already have statements from the other thieves. The case _is closed_ ” 

You nod, grateful that for the first time that he doesn’t mind relaying details over the case. 

“Olivier and I were thinking to start in the evening maybe, or even tomorrow morning.” 

“Okay,” you mumble out, “that’s a good idea” 

“Olivier suggests you take some time to rest at the Brownstone. We’ll be here when you decide to come back.” 

Your eyes go to JJ and Prentiss on the other side of the floor, gathering papers into bags. 

“The BAU is leaving tonight” he says, following your line of sight, “airplanes have been cleared for take off since this evening” 

Your eyes roam around – _they didn’t say anything_. Did they? You remember Emily, JJ and Spencer surrounding you, but you can’t remember a single word they’d said. 

You leave Martins without a reply, walking around the floor, searching for Hotch. You go to the small kitchen – he’s not there. To the adjacent room of the interrogation but it’s empty. Then outside to the fire escape. You push open the door, and you hear his voice before seeing him. 

“-yes buddy it was exactly like _Storm_ had manipulated the weather.” 

His voice is light and soft – and you sense he’s talking to his son, Jack. You hesitate. 

“Is that so?” he asks, a small laugh falling out of his lips that makes you feel lighthearted as well, “then we will take a trip soon to a snowy mountain.” 

You spot the top of his head. He’s a floor below on the steps of the fire escape. He paces back and forth, as his feet click against the metallic floor. 

“Yes, I promise you. Next trip, we will go skiing too-” 

Your feet hit the metallic surface, making noise at once – his head snaps up to you. 

“Listen, buddy, I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay? Love you” 

He hangs up before you’ve even begun to descend the stairs. You stop in front of him, your heart beating so loud in your chest, you think it’s going to crush your ribs. The discussion with Spencer is fresh in your mind. 

“How’s Jack?” you mumble out. 

His eyes glaze over your face, taking in every inch of you. There’s a magnetic force pulling you two together immediately. All semblance of professionalism out the window. 

“He’s good” he says, but his voice is strained, “he’s sad he’s never witnessed a snowstorm” 

You nod, and look behind him to where the windows of the buildings have a full view to you. Every single officer can see you two trying – with an _excruciating_ effort – to have a normal innocent conversation. 

“Lucky him” you exhale. 

Hotch’s hands are curled into fists at his side – and you’re praising God for his self-control. It’s the only thing restraining you too. The only motivator. So, you don’t throw yourself in his arms and kiss him right here and now. Not caring about who’s watching. 

“Yes” Hotch says, “I don’t want another snowstorm in my life” 

“Ditto” you say, and you try to keep yourself as unmoving as he is. “I heard you’re leaving” 

He sucks in a breath, “Martins wants us out.” 

But does _he -_ _want an out_ _?_

“So, you’re leaving” you repeat again. 

His back is to the windows so he doesn’t have to steel his face- 

“We helped you catch him” he says, pronouncing the words slowly, searching your eyes for something, “that’s all the task force requested” 

And you read what he’s implying – that he needs a confirmation that you’re fine if they leave – if _he_ goes. Words stumble out of your lips without thinking, 

“I can’t do this on my own. I will have to interrogate him at some point over the girls, and Revi _again_ – and Olivier isn’t trained for interrogation.” 

You take a breath: 

“And Martins doesn’t give _a shit_. He wants this case closed and sealed so he can head back to his headquarters” 

Your voice is a shameless, rambling plead: 

“ _I know_ it’s too much to ask of the BAU”, _of you–_ you want to say, “but interrogations are where you excel.” _Where he excels_ – amongst other things. 

“ _Please”_

He nods then, no hesitation on his face or actions. It’s sharp and decisive, no need to think it over. 

“I’ll ask them” he says and relief washes over you, leaving you breathless, “but they will have to decide on their own, since it will be work on their own time” 

“Okay” you say, “that’s okay” 

A silent understanding passes. That he’d so easily accept – he has familiar obligations as well, and he must be fed up with the weather, Martins, even NYPD. 

“If I’m going to interrogate Reus” he starts then, “you’ll have to tell me everything about Ronin Revi” 

The rug is pulled from under you, and you take a step back. He notes your sudden change, frown back on his face. 

“I don’t care what the relationship between you two _really_ was-“ 

You flinch, the words like a slap to your face. Did he not believe you – like Martins, _like Reus?_

_“_ The relationship was what I told you it was, Hotch” you interrupt, “there’s nothing more to say” 

“That’s how Reus gets to you –“ he says, voice too harsh to your ears, “ _through_ Ronin. Whatever you’re not telling me-“ 

“I’ve told you everything!” you let out, hurt by whatever he’s implying. 

“No” he says, voice high and echoing through the fire escape, breaking the silence, “you never told me about him. You never said _anything_ about Reus . If Martins hadn’t called the BAU to collaborate – to spite you – I _still_ wouldn’t know” 

Your voice is feeble. 

“Hotch-“ 

“Were you ever going to discuss him?” He snaps then, maybe from the nerves of the interrogation, or these whole days, or just what he’s gathered during your time together. “Or did you intend to evade all of my questions about him for the entirety of our relationship?” 

His words are like jabs on your lungs, sucking out all the air from your throat. 

“No” you mumble meekly, “I wo-would have told you-“ but you’re lying, and you’re ashamed to be caught in a lie, knowing he can see through you. 

You retreat, back hitting the handrail behind you and your hand wraps over it, pushing yourself up. You don’t say a word – your heart loud on your chest, throat closed off completely – and climb the stairs in a hurry. You don’t stop even when you’re inside, heading directly to the exits. 

“ _Saya_ -“ 

His voice calling your name carries you even as you go outside. 

\--- 

_You find him hunched over the bar – a whiskey in hand that sits empty before him. You’re relieved you’d managed to find him, but not for the state he’s in._

_“_ Ronin _-”_

_He looks up at your voice, and his eyes are filled with tears. It tugs at your heart, and you feel yourself tearing up as well._

_“Verona told me you left.” your words sound stupid even after you’ve said them – and they felt lame even when you were thinking of them as an excuse. You never fought but when you did – he'd yell at you that he didn’t owe you anything – that he was a capable adult. And he didn’t owe you any explanation. That’s why you’re making excuses even now, however lame they are. After he’d come back from the prison after visiting his father, he’d changed. He didn’t talk the whole ride back. And not even in the office, for a whole week. And you couldn’t help but worry._

_You sit down next to him, even though he doesn’t say a word to you. You wave a hand at the bartender and he presents two other glasses. He takes one of them and downs the drink at once – and you wince._

_“I know you don’t feel like talking-” you start, and he gives you a grimace, “but I want you to know that I’m there when you decide to”_

_He stares at you then – his face emotionless, and gaze empty. And for the first time – you can’t read his expression._

_“You’re_ always _there” he says, voice foreign and scratching the insides of your stomach in a painful way._

_You take a sip of your drink, just so he doesn’t get to it first._

_“I am” you say, not knowing what else to do, “I know you’re fed up with me after all these years, but I won’t leave you alone.”_

_He turns to stare at your hands over the wooden surface between the two of you, and a long silence spans between._

_“I’m_ not _fed up with you” he croaks out after what feels like hours._

_“You’re not?” you manage with the smallest voice. “I thought that’s why you left, and why you didn’t want to talk”_

_He shakes his head, and you note how flushed his cheeks are – the way his_ _under eye_ _circles make his face look contorted and alien. And you don’t know how to comfort him, or repay him for all those other times he’d done the same for you. So, you wrap your hand around his._

_“I care about you, Ronin.”_

_When you look up – his face is inches away from yours. You’re too surprised to do anything, too caught from the proximity – as he moves fast. His mouth is over yours in a blink, and it freezes you in place, unable to react. His free hand moves so it cups your jaw – cold_ _fingers_ _making you flinch. Then your brain starts working again. You push him away with both hands, too aggressive, too forceful, and he stumbles back into his seat._

_“-what...”_

_You’re standing up and away from the barstool and you feel betrayed and hurt._

_“_ I care _about you too” he says simply, and you’re too wild-eyed to believe what just happened, “but not in the same way you do-”_

_You cut him off, “no-n-no. This is just a hiccup._ It’s nothing _. You don’t feel that way. It’s a trauma response-”_

_“Will you_ stop _telling me how to feel_ for once _?” his voice is too loud to your ears, making even the few people in the bar turn around._

_“_ I _know how I feel.” his voice is angry as he snarls at you, “Stop being sorry for me!_ Only I _know what it was like to live like that!”_

_You flinch at his words and tone of voice._

_“_ _Ronin_ _”_

_“I don’t want to hear whatever_ bullshit _you’re going to sprout” he says with a dismissive hand, “I don’t need you to be a smartass”_

_“Then, what do you want?” you turn to him as he straightens up, back to that same posture he had when you found him._

_“I don’t want you to be_ a friend _either” he spits the words out to you like they’re venom, and you take another step back._

_“I don’t_ _understand”_

_He shakes his head, and swallows down your drink too. He's almost unrecognizable, but you’re still hurt over whatever he must have witnessed_ _a week_ _ago at the prison. At whatever his father had told him._

_“_ _Go home_ _,_ _Saya_ _." he says then, not deigning to look at you, “I don’t want to_ have to _see your face right now”_

_You’re lost but you do as he says, picking up your bag from the stool._

_“I’ll see you tomorrow” you say in a whisper._

_\--_

_The drive the next day is silent and he looks like himself – self-secure and assured as he takes you to the address that his father had given him. You don’t dare open your mouth, either way. But when you’re inside the loft, eyes fixed on a painting of a sea, waves hitting the shore, you finally do._

_“We should talk” you say, and he’s on the other side of the apartment, inspecting a book with his gloves on._

_“Isn’t that what we are doing?” he responds, not looking up._

_“No” you say, “we should talk about last night”_

_Because you don’t know how far you can go along with pretending – when he’d so clearly crossed a boundary and made you uncomfortable. But if he doesn’t remember it then it’s okay, it’s fine._ You’ll forget it too. 

_“There’s nothing to talk about” he says, dropping the book over the table. The noise of it makes you jump._

_“_ Ronin- _”_

_“Don’t call me_ _that_ _” he says sharply, “I’m Agent_ _Revi_ _on the field”_

_You look at him shocked – he's never talked to you like that before._

_“Fine” you let out, “let’s just be passive aggressive all day then. Is that it?”_

_He crosses the distance to stop before you. But you don’t let him speak._

_“Either_ grow some _, Ronin, and take responsibility for your actions,” you snap, “or let’s just stop this right now – if you don’t want to be friends. Pick_ _one_ _side, not_ both _._ _But_ _don’t_ _avoid me”_

_His breathing is ragged and wild and for a second you think he’ll apologize and tell you what you want to hear: that it was the alcohol, the fact he was shaken up from confronting his father, and that he doesn’t want to jeopardize your relationship._

_“Fine” he says, “let’s_ stop _this”_

_You blink at him, “what?”_

_“I don’t know_ _how to be your friend_ _anymore,_ _Saya_ _” he says, “I don’t know how to continue-”_

_His phone starts blaring in his pocket and so does yours. He reacts first, picking it up._

_“Agent_ _Revi_ _-” he greets and whatever is being said on the other line is not good because his entire demeanor changes. You recognize the look in his eyes immediately –_ something bad is happening _._

_“Yes, I've got the address. We are close.”_

_And you follow him wordlessly outside._

_The robbers have hit again – this time right close to where you both are._ _Revi_ _doesn’t even bother to park as he breaks, before he’s pushing out of the car. He goes at once to the police officers surrounding the building._

_“- we storm now” you hear him say as you approach, running to them._

_“That’s not a good-”_

_But before they can hear you, they are all moving towards the building, guns drawn. And even though you’re confused and mad, and a whole load of other feelings – you're still sharp. You recognize that this plan of his is_ suicidal _._ _Not when there isn’t enough backup yet. So, you hurry after him, sprinting._

_Someone shoots first – the burglars, and you move on instinct behind a column shielding your body._

_That first bullet makes everything erupt. A dozen shots happen at once, each louder and scarier than the first – as the acoustics of the space around make them all echo._

_Then at once, everything falls silent. Your heart lurches in your throat because that is_ never _a good sign._ It can’t be. 

_“_ _Saya_ _-” his voice is but a whisper amongst the noise that had screamed around the space a second ago._

_You detach from the column, your hands sweaty, and -_

_He’s lying on the ground, blood violently oozing from his torso and neck, and his eyes are glued on yours. His breathing is rushed, hands stretched towards you, reaching out. You shuffle your feet, your entire body heavy. But before you can do anything, SWAT officers swarm in front of you, cutting off your line of sight._

_When you finally meet his eyes again, they’re unmoving – rolled back._

\-- 

“I’m glad you’re okay, birdie” Penelope says through the screen of your phone. She’d insisted on facetiming you and well – you’d wanted to talk to someone too, after leaving the NYPD building. 

“That scumbag-” she says and you shake your head. Talking to her had been all – _how are you, you sure you’re okay_ , and then a billion curse words directed to Reus. Overall, _actually_ nice. 

You throw another piece of wood in the fireplace and let out a huff. 

“What is it?” she asks, watching your worried face. 

“I don’t know how to light this fireplace” you admit. 

“Oh” she breathes out, “I don’t know either, actually. You don’t have anyone around you to help?” 

“No” you say. And the _only_ person you wanted to see now was Hotch and you’re sure you’d fucked that up colossally. 

“Ah-” she inhales, “Duty calls. But we’ll talk again, okay?” 

You say your goodbyes and give up on turning the _fucking_ fireplace on and make your way to your bedroom. You hadn’t wanted to before – feeling too much like you’d thrown a tantrum by barricading in your room. 

You’re not even halfway in when the door blasts open behind you. 

“What-” 

Hotch stands at your door, the shoulders of his FBI jacket covered in snow, and the collar tight around his neck and chin. His high cheekbones are crimson red from the cold, and his frown unmoving from his face. His hair is covered in snowflakes as well, and the wildest thought springs to your head – that he’d _ran_ here. But it’s been hours since you’d left. You’d taken a shower to get Reus’ stench off you and rid yourself of the feeling of his hands. You’d even managed a bite or two. Even a cup of coffee. And it had helped to make you feel human again. His eyes trail down your figure, seeing your change of clothes – not missing the fact you’re wearing his shirt. He studies the way it blankets your body, sleeves reaching your knuckles, the hem down to your knees, covering your bare thighs. 

His expression changes then, his eyes turning gentle and soft. 

“I’m sorry” is the first word out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I-” he swallows, crossing the threshold, entering your room, and he stops before your bed, “- _I almost lost you_ ” he says then. You move without thinking – body pulled to his through an invisible force. His breathing is loud when you’re finally standing in front of him, and he’s looking at you like he’s never done before. His gaze is unwavering – eyes brilliant and soft, watching you with reverence. Your last discussion is wiped clean from your memory. 

He reaches out with his right hand, finger and thumb picking a strand of hair at the side of your face, still wet from your shower. The pad of his thumb brushes lightly against the cusp of your cheek – cold to the touch making you gasp. 

“Sorry” he mumbles but your hands wrap around his, wanting to transfer your warmth to him. He makes an attempt to retract his hand, so it doesn’t freeze you as well, but he gives up the fight when you brush a kiss over the heel of his palm. 

“You’re freezing” you breathe out as you grab his other hand, bringing both up to your mouth. He inhales sharply when you leave kisses over his knuckles – tender and slow. His hands are rough, calloused from handling guns, and whatever else he’s had to do on the job. They’re large – dissipating every ounce of heat from the surface of your fingers. So, you lean your head down, brushing your warm cheek against his knuckles. The coldness of his touch brings needed clarity to your brain. His breath hitches in his throat, watching you. You let go – his hands coming to clutch the collar of your shirt, just above your collarbones. He tugs you in with force, pulling the fabric until you’re pressed against his chest. You’re drawn to him like moth to a flame, almost mesmerized. He smells minty fresh like the snow, and it makes your lungs swell up. A wave of emotion crushes over you – reminding you of all the times you’d been _so close_ these days, unable to do what you’d so desperately desired and needed. And you forget any gentleness as you take a leap forward. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him down, mouth crashing against his. 

“ _Hotch_ _-_ “ you breathe out against his lips as he takes charge. His hands roam down to your front, skimming your breasts, and finding rest over your hips. His lips are cold, making you gasp against his mouth. Then his tongue prods your lips open, and you follow his lead – moving as he does, tilting your head to the side, granting him access. His hands grip your waist, hoisting you up with ease. His palms latch under your knees hooking your legs around his waist at once. 

You’re too caught with kissing him – a hunger that doesn’t seem to leave the more you do it. Turning you messy, sloppy and making your exclaims loud and breathy. And then- 

“ _the door_ _-_ “ you croak out, pulling back. Because you can't bear the though of having to pause this - not now, not ever if someone were to walk in. At the lack of your lips, his mouth drags down your jawline. You crane your neck to see the door behind him – he _lurches_ for it, nibbling and licking at your soft skin.

“We need to shut this door-“ you mutter, eyes struggling to stay open even under the ministrations of his warm tongue and lips. You stretch an arm out behind him, clinging unto him with only a hand. Your fingers reach the wooden surface but you have no strength in you – as his fingers move to the back of your hips, squeezing your thighs – 

“We can’t _fuck_ until this door is closed -“ you blurt then, words ridiculous even to your own ears, but it seems to jolt him awake. He turns you around, moving so fast, you have to latch both arms around his neck again. Still holding you like you weigh nothing – he kicks the door shut, loud noise vibrating through all the walls. The force with which he does that, and his impatience too, make you shamelessly more excited for what’s coming next. Increasing the electricity in your veins, all pooling at the end of your stomach. 

Then another intrusive thought pops in your head – that you’ll need to _actually_ lock the door, so you can be calmer. He senses your hesitation because he pauses too – 

His hand reaches up, cupping your chin, turning you sharply to him, directing your eyes to his instead – 

“What is it, _honey_?” 

You gulp over his hand, mouth dry and brain short-circuiting. And you can’t say it aloud, afraid you’re going to ruin the mood. It doesn’t help that his words and _that_ gesture muddles the thoughts in your head. So, you stare at him, open-mouthed. His thumb strokes your jaw, and with his hold on your chin he tugs you in. He leaves a small peck on your lips. 

“ _Tell me_ ” he encourages, going back to being gentle. 

“It’s just-“ your entire body is overheated, but you can still think, _thankfully_ –“ the door. I want it locked” 

“Okay, _baby_ ” 

You feel a sudden rush of heat on your cheeks, neck, and ears at that – _did the inability to use pet names all this time make him fire his entire arsenal at once_? 

He lets you out of his hold gently, and you wobble as you make it to the door. Your fingers shake too – from excitement - and you turn the key, once, and then another, until it won’t go anymore. He lets out a laugh behind you, and you’re flush with embarrassment. 

“All okay?” 

“Yes” you let out, but you take a minute to control your ragged breathing, holding yourself steady over the door handle. Because it’s been _a while_ – and you’d grown expectations as well. 

Then before you can even turn, his body is against your back, pressing you roughly against the wall. One of his hands is back to your jawline turning you sideways to face him – stopping you before your head hits the wall. Your hands are quick at the sides, holding your body weight over the surface. His mouth is hungry over yours, despite the angle. And you whimper at his sudden roughness, back arching – moans escaping you before he’s even done anything else. _Touched_ anywhere else. 

“Are you sure about this?” he says, once his lips leave yours. “I want to hear you say it, _honey_ ” 

Words barrel out of your mouth, with no shame or filter, because it’s been _too_ long and you’ve turned feral: 

“ _Yes, please. Yes_. You can do _whatever_ you want to me-“ 

He lets out a dark chuckle and kisses you sweetly again. 

“What do _you_ want, _baby_?” 

You swallow, and the closeness of his fingers to your mouth gives you an idea – 

“Your _fingers_ -“ 

And he obeys – directing his free hand to where you need it most. Not before he’s grazing every inch of your body, hand rough but the right texture, driving you wild. He pulls up the hem of your – _his_ – shirt, uncovering your thighs, and then baring your back, hand diving between your legs, and then – 

You’re panting – slowly coming undone at his movements – a flurry of words leaving your mouth. Half are pleads, the other are his name followed by a variety of curse words. His mouth never leaves your neck, lavishing it with kisses. And as if he’d been able to read your mind from the start, he uses the hand over your jaw, long fingers craning your neck. He pushes two fingers inside your mouth – your tongue moving deftly around them, licking obscenely. It manages to quiet down your noises down a notch or two. And when you’re _gone,_ you let goof his fingers out of your mouth with a loud pop. Hisfingers _below_ chase you diligently from your high until your breathing is back to normal – and he twists you to him. Your mouth is agape, mind wiped completely blank, as you watch him drag his fingers into his mouth, cleaning them up with a flicker of his tongue. He brushes away the hair clinging to your forehead and neck, leaving soft kisses over your skin. Even though _spent_ – you need _all of him._ You say so – blunt and unabashed and his smile is wide at your words. 

“What?” you ask, breath ragged and voice already strained at the sight of him. 

He shakes off his snow jacket, throwing it to the ground behind him. Then with a hand, he yanks his pullover over his head, remaining in a white tee. He’s as impatient as you feel – and that makes your breathing come out shallow and quick. You watch hypnotized his movements. The planes of his face and the sculpted lines over his skin – the cheekbones, the creases of his dimples, even the lines of worry over his forehead. He’s always frowning – and _so_ serious, but it drives you mad all the same. His hands find your hips again, holding you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. His pants are zipped open, hanging low off his waist. 

“That _mouth_ of yours–“ he says, voice husky and increasing the heat at the pit of your stomach. He’s answering the question you asked him, “- _I love_ hearing what you want from me“ 

With the advantage of the height he grants you – your mouth is for nothing but loud, _obscene_ noises. While he nips and bites at your neck and collarbones – bare through the zip of your shirt that runs down to your chest. Your hands rake through his hair, scraping at his scalp as he elicits moans out of you, sucking at a sweet spot on your neck. 

“ _Aaron-”_ your voice is urgent again, wanting to instruct him to stop the teasing. And yet before you can make a comment, he _drives_ into you. 

“ _Fuck-“_

Then everything is loud and rushed, your nails digging at the material at his back – his hands at your hips guiding your movements. _Back and forth_ , and back and forth – and so on. Until what leaves your mouth is an incoherent string of words. Meanwhile, his words are controlled, confident, like a mantra: 

“You’re _so_ good - _so good-"_

His head collapses at the crook of your neck as he reaches his high. Then his mouth is sloppily latched to your neck – bringing you back with wet kisses. He’s chanting sweet nothings below your ear, licking at the spot he’d left a bruise on. And he detaches you from the wall, walking you slowly to your bed, legs still hooked around his waist. He places you over it gently. A whimper escapes your lips as he _leaves_ you. He steps back, standing with no visible tiredness on his face. Then it registers, that you’re both still clothed. 

“Take it off“ he orders and you happily obey. 

You’re _so_ blissed out you hadn’t even noticed his shirt still on you. His undershirt is next – revealing at once his naked chest. Even through the deep scars - a painful memory of the past and everlasting reminder - he's _heady_. Toned and chiseled from the many years of training and jogging, cycling, and whatever other sport he insists on doing for stamina in the field. Despite the years on his shoulders, he still looks perfect – _too good_ to be as old as he is. You take a deep breath – already riled up once again just from looking at him as is. 

“This bed _creeks_ ” you let out unprompted and he flashes you a smirk, cheekbones popping up attractively – 

“So does the one at your place” 

_True,_ but that one was a turn on. This one – you’re not so sure. His pants are next and _well..._ – you’re not sure where _this_ is headed but you’re not one to complain. 

He joins you on the bed, body over yours, and he cups your face gently, leaving a sweet kiss over your lips. 

“You were _so brave_ honey,” he says, back to lavishing you with kisses, “my _sweet_ girl” 

And you’re tired and satisfied but his praise and his _voice_ – they bring you alive once more. The urgency that had captured you both has left – now replaced with a slowness and gentle passion that pulls at your heartstrings. Your heart is loud inside your chest, beating rhythmically at every appraisal he mumbles over your skin. It's as if he's praying over your skin with each touch, relieved and blissful that he can still hold you - _be_ with you. To him, it had seemed like a thousand lifetimes had passed between the span of the interrogation room and seeing you finally outside. And he couldn't even say it - he couldn't let himself show what he truly felt afterwards, too many eyes rendering him into a statue. But he can now - _self-control_ be damned. His mouth trails a hot path downwards, hands moving deftly over every bare inch of your skin. And when your legs part open again – from his _everything,_ you come undone another time. 

\--- 

You roll lazily off his hold – reaching for the phone over on the ground floor. A message from Olivier informs you that they’re coming back to the Brownstone with food, together with the BAU. Though you wonder why he’d have to notify you of that – when it’s _his_ house. 

“What is it?” He asks, having woken up as soon as you’d left his chest. You stifle a smile at that, and place the phone back. You return to his embrace, covering yourself up with a blanket as you do. 

“The team’s coming back” 

“Mhm” he mutters, eyes squeezed shut as soon as he feels your touch again. 

“We can’t be seen in the living room _again_ ” you say, though you don’t want to part either. 

After _everything,_ and having fixed up,you’d both headed downstairs, planting yourselves over the couch, while Hotch lit up the fireplace. And his arms around you and the warmth of the fire, had given rise to many naps. 

“The team already knows” he says, and a light blush crosses your cheeks. Because him _saying_ it is different than knowing it to be true. 

“David will yell at me _again_ ” you say then. “-and Martins will take me off the task force” 

“Dave can mind his _own_ business” he mutters, squeezing you in closer. 

“They’re bringing food” and at that he lets out a hum of disapproval. Because you know he must be as hungry as you are. 

“ _Fine_ -“ 

The slight annoyance in his tone makes you laugh. And when you both straighten up your clothes, and the living room too – the others finding you sitting inches from one another on the sofa, they have the decency to act like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Even when they see their unit chief, usually in a highly curated appearance have mismatched socks. Even when they see _you_ , with an obscenely-large hickey on your collarbones, peeking out from the collar of your zip-up. 

\------ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always thnx for reading!!!!!!!!! i will definitely disappear this time for sure (bcs of exams)
> 
> but ! as always pls let me know what you think - even if you do find this chapter a true disaster - especially the ~spice part bcs im so out of my depth writing stuff like ~this. so, id rather hear sb say its an abomination than to pretend its not lmao ((and yes my headcannon is that this man has massive amounts of stamina lmao))
> 
> but yes, okay, thnx yall !!


	26. Sabotage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, Martins and the BAU come to an agreement over Reus - but you find out it's nothing like you'd envisioned it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all!!! sry for being so late but was struggling a bit tryin to think where i want this story to head to - so i can wrap it up at some point  
> I wouldnt wanna prolong it so it becomes boring for u guys and u know, for me to feel like a chore.
> 
> but thnxxxx so much for the reads and kudos!! i appreciate it so much!!
> 
> song title by the Beastie boys lmao

Jonathan Reus sits alone in the empty interrogation room. The only sign that he’s restless is his slouching back, elbows leaning heavily over the table before him, and the deep dark circles under his eyes. They still, looking towards the one-way mirror, to where you stand. It’s ridiculous but every move you make – although he cannot see – feels like the Mona Lisa, following you with his eyes even though he cannot possibly know you’re here. Olivier walks out, the door shutting loudly behind him making you jump slightly. Martins at your right breaks the sullen silence. 

“Agent Hotchner got him to admit all of the thefts.” he says. You’d witnessed it too, but it hadn’t been hard. Reus was quick to take credit. 

His eyes are on you, but you can’t stop staring at Reus, and at his hands. The image of his long fingers stretching forward the chain of his cuffs is etched in your brain. He would have killed the guard yesterday – not for any other reason than he could. He would have done the same with you too even if you hadn’t stopped him. 

“We are taking him back to the CIA headquarters” he says then and you snap towards him. The sun hasn’t even risen properly over the horizon, the early hour making you tired to the bone. 

“What?” you repeat again. 

“I will continue my interrogation with him there. The papers have already been submitted-“ 

“Since we caught him?” you interrupt. 

He nods. “The agreement was there since the start. We just needed confirmation from the head of NYPD” 

Something Detective Parker probably resigned quickly after Reus almost killed his man and you – in his own building. 

“However,” he pauses, shoving his hands in his pockets, “You don’t have to say goodbye to this-“ 

He watches your face, waiting for it to change. “-I’ve been delegated to offer you a position – you’d participate in the interrogation and later with the tracking of the individual I am trying to find” 

_He is offering you a job?_

“You’re offering me a job?” 

“I wouldn’t be your boss-“ he says fast, the words tumbling from his mouth. And he has to know that that would be a decisive factor because you’re more than surprised now. “But you won’t be cleared for the relevant intel until you accept the position.” 

“What are you basing this off?” 

He takes a deep breath as if he’d asked the same from his superiors to be given the same answer that he is relaying now: 

“Your experience in Dallas; being a sharpshooter; your experience at the BAU as a profiler and –“ he pauses, turning to stare at Reus from the other side, “your interrogation skills. I think you can read him and there is already a rapport between you two.” In a twisted sign of fate – Reus _is_ helping your career. 

“How long would the commitment be?” you ask. 

He cocks an eyebrow, not having expected that question but a direct decline of the offer instead. “They are ready to offer you a 5-year placement.” 

You suck in a breath. _Five years._ It took almost one to track down Reus and amongst anything you hadn’t thought of the next steps. The FBI had offered the task force as a way for you to not quit, or transfer. Yet you’d never realized if that meant returning to it or to the BAU. 

“You’re interested” he says flatly, and you shake your head, stopping him before he jumps to conclusions. 

“Kuroki, I know we don’t have the _best_ rapport-“ 

That’s _one way_ to phrase it. 

“But I respect your work-“ 

You cross your hands before your chest, an eyebrow raised. 

“Okay, I didn’t _before._ Truthfully, I thought you had majorly fucked up with your former team“ he says with a smirk, “but I can see that is not the case.” 

“Right” you say, “thanks for not taking my words for granted, I guess?” 

“And I did think that your relationship with Reus was different” 

You nod, again. “Right, thanks again” 

“The work we do,” he says, “especially tracking down people like _him_ – it makes everyone skeptical of even people in this field. That’s something you have to take in consideration as well.” 

You look towards Reus as well. He had managed to find that woman from FEMA after all. 

“But if you hesitate because of me then I’m telling you I won’t be a pain in the ass. So, don’t refuse it without thinking it over.” 

\-- 

You plop down the seat as JJ and Morgan surround you – expressions somber like yours. The snowstorm and case had drawn out impossibly long and having to go back did not mean everyone could go home yet. The BAU were to continue to try to find the bodies of Reus' victims – if there were any more. But Martins and Olivier had left earlier – the first with a large group of likeminded people in suits and black sunglasses, as they hauled Reus back. 

_“I just have to say” Olivier had said, his hands over your shoulders looking you straight in the eyes, “I’m glad you have a life outside of Reus. I thought you were going to kill yourself over finding him.”_

_“Almost did” you'd reminded him, just to break the seriousness of his_ _tone_ _._

_He’d let you go then, eyes darting to Hotch who had just walked in, breaking whatever context he’d thought he’d stumbled into, uninvited._

“Why the long faces?” Rossi says as soon as he walks through the open door. He scans your faces as he sits beside you. “No more snow storms – that’s enough of a reason to smile” 

Reid on the other side of the plane beams. “I am glad for not having to wear these many layers again” he chimes. 

Emily and Hotch walk in last, the discussion amongst them animated as Martins has informed them of the last details. He had told you the rest after his offer - on how they would continue the interrogation to make Reus confess about the murders too. They both sit together, continuing their chatter even through the plane take off. 

Only after everyone started remembering the nice things about not having to stay in the freezing cold again do they stand up and join the rest. 

“Penelope says she has a surprise for everyone” Emily says. 

She leans forward and opens the laptop over the table in front of you. Penelope’s face pops on at once. 

“Hello my tireless angels. I am so glad to see you all in the plane home “ 

Everyone’s smiles are easy to come at her words and kind face. 

“I know you are all exhausted and probably isolated too – after that awful storm so I _did_ invite special people to greet you here.” 

“Special people?” JJ asks, her face drawn in half concern and half surprise. 

“Yes – families and friends and partners too- when they were reachable-“ she looks pointedly at Rossi who lets out a laugh. 

“This is exactly why I don’t tell you things!” 

“So-“ Derek starts, looking between the both of them, “our families are in the bullpen?” 

“They will be” she corrects, “I’ve timed them to arrive just as you land” 

JJ grins. “oh god is that why Will wouldn’t answer me when I told him to come pick me up?” 

“Of course,” Penelope says, “Henry and Will are going to be here for you. As will Jack too, sir- “ 

You glance at Hotch, who standing up and too serious for the topic, becomes untensed in a second. There’s a hint of a smile on his face and Penelope is quick to catch it. 

“Thank you, Garcia. That is very thoughtful of you” 

“Of course, I had to adapt in some cases – Emily I called your man and he can’t be here but he promised something special-“ 

You all coo at that – JJ, Derek and you, and Emily laughs it off. 

“Derek, I am your special somebody. Obviously.” 

He repeats with a grin – “obviously” The laughter filling the environment is contagious at that. 

“Spence, I called your nerdy friends and since I’m also part of that group I’m available for whatever in the next days.” 

You turn to the screen, grinning at the way Spencer lets his excitement show - face all scrunched up in excitement and smile splitting his face. 

“And Saya, _birdie”_ you turn to the screen, “I didn’t call you anyone special because, _well-“_ she glances quickly at Hotch and both your face and hers are instantly flushed red in embarrassment. 

“Right, no.“ 

The others’ laughter is higher at that, and you stand up. 

“That’s my cue to get so-some coffee. Yes. Or tea-?” Yet you don’t dare anyone’s eyes after Penelope has addressed the elephant in the room, “Anyone want anything? Okay cool.” You don’t wait but get out of there as soon as possible – laughter continuing at your absence too. Having everyone know and mention it to you one by one was almost digestible – but you couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed and a tiny bit embarrassed. 

Spencer is quick to join you by the coffee pot, still smiling. 

“Hey- “, you turn, filling a coffee cup on automatic, and handing it to him, “you got plans tonight?” 

“Nope” he says, grabbing the sugar packets you hand as well, ripping them open and pouring them over the hot liquid in the cup, “You have something in mind? You're also part of my friend group, as Penelope said” he says, voice tiny and eyes investigative over your face. 

Your eyes go tentatively to Hotch – being back in Virginia meant you’d dust off your old schedules, meeting like teenagers after bedtime (Jack’s) or after working hours. It had been a striking change to be constantly around him, in the office and at the same building after hours. He’d probably hated New York for the cold weather and the isolation from the rest of the world, but it hadn’t been the same for you. You’d grown to like it, relishing on how much it felt like an oasis. But Hotch had a family and you were more than okay with that – that's what you repeat to yourself at early hours in the morning before the sunlight has even hit the windows of his bedroom, leaving his house like a thief before Jack wakes up. And you’d had Reus too – commitment ran both sides but it’s bizarre to feel loved and _lonely_ simultaneously. 

“Is your offer for drinks still on?” you ask, feeling timid under his gaze. He’d mentioned it quite a few times and you don’t know how he can possibly tell that there’s something else worrying inside you. 

“Of course,” he says, stirring gently the coffee with a wooden spoon, “Let’s do Roger’s after work” 

You nod, grateful at his patience. 

\--- 

Once out of the plane, you break from the group to head for the parking lot, wanting to pick up your car and go directly to the secret location Martins was keeping Reus. You stop in front of the car, as you search your pockets for the keys – palming through the jacket and the jeans. Letting out a grunt, you dump the go-back on the ground. 

“Please don’t be in _fucking_ New York-” 

“Looking for this?” 

You turn around, smiling at his voice. Hotch stands before you, go-bag still at hand, while on the other he holds out your car keys. 

“How did you get them?” 

“I stole them” he says, pressing the button to unlock the car. 

“What for?” you ask. 

You stretch out an open palm but he moves away, smirking. 

“What are you doing?” you huff out. Instead of answering, he narrows the distance, pulling you in by a hand at your waist and enveloping you in a heated kiss. The adrenaline rush you get in the field is incomparable to the one he brings without fail each time his lips meet yours – your heart leaping a mile a minute, heat rising from your stomach to your chest. Time seems to halt – the smell of him hypnotic, the taste of him silencing all your thoughts. You want more – _need_ more of him. You don’t mind even the way your keys, dangling from his thumb at your waist, dig onto your skin – not when you tug him to you, hands moving on their own volition until he’s pressed firmly against your chest. He lets out a groan over your mouth as you grip the sides of his shirt, fingers slipping underneath to reach his skin. Your back hits the side of the car’s door, and you hear the dull drop of his go-bag over the ground. His other hand reaches your jaw at once, palm diving to the side of your neck, thumb throbbing at the hollow of your neck, rubbing up and down, pulsing warmth. The kiss turns sloppy and ravenous, his tongue exploring the depth of your mouth, hungry and consuming. It makes you believe that those urgent moments passed in the Brownstone are not to remain for New York only – a dedicated promise that he’s not hiding the impulsiveness anymore. A car honk in the background makes him take a step back, a gasp escaping your mouth at the loss of contact. Your eyes remain half-lidded as you let yourself cool down gradually, his hand continuing to trace heat over your skin. 

“I’ve loved New York” he says softly, and you pull him in again to press a chaste kiss over his lips, “I think we should take holidays together” 

“How did you get to that conclusion _?_ ” you ask, feeling slightly dizzy at his proximity. Both of you are propped against your car like teenagers not wanting to separate before heading back home separately. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his mouth fans hot air over it, sending shivers along your spine, as he leans to whisper: 

“I want you _alone_ , honey.” His warm lips brushing your earlobe and his husky voice draw out a low moan out of you, “No locked doors as I take you in _every_ single room, and you’re begging for _more_.” 

The guttural sound that escapes your throat is embarrassing – not when he leans back, pleased at your reaction. With the heel of his palms, he smooths down the hair at the sides of your face, closing the distance again only to brush his lips softly against your forehead. 

“Have a safe trip” he says, stepping back, picking up the bag from the floor. 

“You expect me to head to work like _this_?” you ask, voice still breathy and body in overheat – not to mention you’d probably need a shower and _more_ to clean up. Hotch shrugs, smile too devilish as he opens up your palm and plants your keys over it. 

“I love you, drive safe.” 

_What?_

_"_ I’m _literally_ going to crash. _"_

Not after he’s dropped all that too casually – and you’ll probably replay it a million times a day now. He chuckles, turning and going back to the elevators. As he does you see him halt in front of the doors, his attention caught by something at his right. Then his bag is back on the floor, his body lowering down as Jack barrels onto his arms – both of them erupting in laughter. Even though larger than when he was a toddler, Hotch carries Jack like he still is one. And his son enjoys it too –his father’s attention and love wrapping him up in a cozy hold. Watching them from faraway makes you smile on instinct, and you don’t move – not even when Jessica joins him as he places Jack on the ground again, all of them taking the elevator up. 

\--- 

Needless to say, you’re distracted when you head to the location Martins had forwarded you – not only because of Hotch, but also because you hadn’t stopped to think about Martins’ offer. That’s the first thing he asks you as you enter the seemingly industrial area, large expansive saw-roofed buildings stretching as far as the eye can see. 

“I don’t have an answer” you say on automatic. “Please, I just got off the plane.” 

“You didn’t discuss it with your boss?” he asks, and you narrow your eyes – _does he know about you and Hotch dating?_ You’d understood Olivier did after your last talk together. Also, because Junie had called you on the way here – yelling over the speaker on how the one time she doesn’t go on the field you’d brought your partner with you. 

_“I didn’t plan it” you’d told her._

_“I don’t care! I wanted to see the man who can handle your intensity!” she’d continued screaming._

_“Hey! I’m not intense! What if I send you a photo?” You’d known she wasn’t going to accept because she hurls more screaming curses your way – all surprisingly, out of the kindness of her heart._

“No” you reply to Martins. “It’s my own decision” 

He nods, “Well, I wanted you to get your trial at him first” he says, resuming walking through the site, stopping in front of the large door of a building. 

“Excuse me?” 

“We want you to talk to Reus first” 

_We?_

_“_ He’s inside _there_?” you ask, staring at the door handle, swallowing thick. 

“Yes” Seeing you unmoving he speaks again, “Fair warning – our interrogation rooms don’t look like yours.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, for starters, there’s no table or chairs – apart from the one he is sitting on. If you want a chair though, we could get you one. Actually, that would work as it would show more authority. I’ll get back to you in a minute” 

Before you can even get a word in, he pats your shoulder and leaves. You look around, noting several security guards the perimeter of every building – for the one he’d brought you too, there’s only one man at the corner on your left. He nods at you when you stare too long. _So, Martins just expects you to waltz in there_? 

You push the door open – removing all expectations. And you do well, because nothing prepares you for what you see: 

The inside looks like a plane hangar, overhead roof drawing daylight from above – steel columns holding the massive structure, and Reus sits in the middle. He’s not the same as he’d been hours ago in the NYPD. He’s seated on a chair, body bloodied and head hanging low before him. His shirt is ripped open from his neck down to his stomach and the violent markings demarcating his torso bring up vile at your mouth at once. His hands are tied behind his back against the chair, as are his feet over the floor. It’s hard to believe that this is the same man that had threatened to kill an officer and you a day before. 

He must sense you closer because as soon as you stop before him, he flinches, raising his head at once. The scar over his face at least, is still stitched closed. The entirety of his face is left unscathed – a dark part of you saddened by it. His eyes go wide seeing you. He scoffs, then spits blood at his feet. 

“You made it to the show? Thought _good_ agents were privy to it.” 

How the fuck can you work for someone when they knew _this_ is what they called interrogation _?_

_“_ Why aren’t you accepting the deal?” you croak out – surprising even yourself at the question. 

He snorts, “You’re _worried?”_

_“_ No” you blurt out, “I just don’t want to have to see you die – would ruin my day” 

His smile wipes off his face, turning into a grimace. “I’m fucking sorry, Agent,” he mutters through his teeth, “Now, will you tell your CIA boss to leave me the _fuck_ alone because I don’t know anything about his precious cargo?” 

_Cargo?_

The door behind you slams open, Martins striding through in quick paces, effectively ending your chat with Reus. The latter starts thrashing once noting Martins –body straight against the chair, wanting to move away from Martins even though he can’t. 

Your eyes stay fixed on his reactions – you’d never noted first-hand violent fear like his. But it was distantly familiar to what you’d seen on victims who’d come face to face with their murderers – women and children who’d barely managed to escape sadistic killers. But Martins isn’t one – he's _Martins,_ the same asshole, boorish, patronizing operative who led the task force. The same Martins who has always been so calm and controlled around you – even while trying to undermine you. 

“I can’t get you a chair, now” he says, flashing you a smile as if there’s no tortured man before you both, “But I remembered I wanted your help on a few documents to sign” 

“You want _my_ help?” 

He nods, smiling as if you’re old pals, and like he hadn’t hated your guts a day ago. 

“You’re _ace_ in bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo" he says, “and I forgot I promised Agent Hotchner the first round of interrogation.” 

_Hotch?_ – you take a breath. _Hotch had agreed to this? No._ No, _impossible_. 

“Right” you say, your voice coming out meek, withholding the rest of your micro expressions, so he cannot read them. “Lead me to your documents, then” 

\---- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thnx for reading!! love y'all!!  
> also lemme know if u there's anything 👀 specific 👀 you want to read  
> and lemme know what u think ofc! thnx again


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